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Updated: June 13, 2025
The negro who always opened her door would take it in; Picpon would hint to him to be careful, as it contained some rare and rich sweetmeats, negro nature, he well knew, would impel him to search for the bonbons; and the bag, under his clumsy treatment, would bear plain marks of having been tampered with, and, as the African had a most thievish reputation, he would never be believed if he swore himself guiltless.
Le Capitaine Argentier was passing, and made a fuss; else nothing would have been done. They have put him under arrest; but I heard them say they would let him free to-night because we should march at dawn." "I will go and see him at once." "Wait, mon Caporal; I have something to tell you," said Picpon quickly. "The zig has a motive in what he does. Rac wanted to get the prison.
"Not in your squadron, mon Caporal," said Picpon quickly. "It is not much, either. Only the bon zig Rac." "Rake? What has he been doing?" There was infinite anxiety and vexation in his voice.
When he was swung down from the saddle and laid in front of a fire, sheltered from the bitter north wind that was then blowing cruelly, the bright, black, ape-like eyes of the Parisian diablotin opened with a strange gleam in them. "Picpon s'en souviendra," he murmured.
Picpon was unusually thoughtful and sober in deportment for him, since he was usually given to making his progress along a road, taken unobserved by those in command over him, with hands and heels in the dexterous somersaults of his early days.
At that instant Petit Picpon's keen, pale, Parisian face peered through the door; his great, black eyes, that at times had so pathetic a melancholy, and at others such a monkeyish mirth and malice, were sparkling excitedly and gleefully. "Mon Caporal!" "You, Picpon! What is it?" "Mon, Caporal, there is great news. There is fighting broken out yonder." "Ah! Are you sure?" "Sure, mon Caporal.
Picpon was very quick, intelligent, and much liked by his superiors, so that he was often employed on errands; and the tricks he played in the execution thereof were so adroitly done that they were never detected. Picpon had chuckled to himself over this mission.
"Ah! le pauvre Picpon!" she said softly, as she reached at last the place where the young Chasseur lay, and lifted the black curls off his forehead.
Just as he had shaken his bridle free of the Arab's clutch, and had mowed himself a clear path through their ranks, he caught sight of his young enemy, Picpon, on the ground, with a lance broken off in his ribs; guarding his head, with bleeding hands, as the horses trampled over him.
I will give it up, then!" Picpon did not know himself as he said it.
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