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Updated: June 25, 2025
The Zouave would willingly have died a thousand deaths if he only could have saved the life of his young master. The third day dawned, and Gontram and Fanfaro looked anxiously at each other. To-day the count must come. Toward evening the door was suddenly opened.
A Zouave was running before her towards the gate of the barrack where a sentinel stood motionless under the lamp, his gray hood drawn over his head and his rifle erect by his shoulder.
"Boy, I used to be human once," said the Zouave, when he had executed this summary justice upon the rebel; "but I'm not human now. I'm all devil." "What a wretch that rebel was!" exclaimed Tom, who seemed to breathe freer now that retribution had overtaken the viper. "A wretch! Haven't you got any bigger word than that, boy? He was a fiend! But we mustn't stop here."
Faustina fixed her eyes in the direction whence her woman would probably return, ready to enter the throng instantly, if necessary. Even where they now were, so many others were standing and kneeling that the presence of the Zouave beside Faustina would create no surprise.
They came on confidently, flushed with victory, brilliant as tropical birds in the uniforms so bright and new, in the blue, in the gold, in the fiery, zouave dress, in the Garibaldi shirt, in the fez, the Scotch bonnet, the plume, in all the militia pomp and circumstance of that somewhat theatrical "On to Richmond."
The few pennies she had saved she used to buy a pair of spectacles to read the forthcoming chronicles; for she was one of that class of innocent people who believe that the faculty of reading rests in spectacles. About the year 1843 the Zouave regiment, to which Coucou belonged, made a sortie under General Cavaignac against the Kabyles in Beni Djaad.
The old woman was dumfounded; forthwith she turned her back and marched off with a look of supreme contempt. "That thing an emperor! a likely story." A zouave was standing near, one of those fugitive soldiers who were in no haste to rejoin their commands. Brandishing his chassepot and expectorating threats and maledictions, he said to his companion: "Wait! see me put a bullet in his head!"
"Was he the person whom you expected?" "Yes." "Oh, then be of good cheer," said Clary, putting her tiny hand upon her heaving breast; "something tells me that this man is almighty! Hope, Mother Mercedes hope!" The count found the Zouave outside the house in animated conversation with Madame Caraman.
His voice became suddenly clear. "John Casson Egerton's Dragoons. . . . Mrs. Henry Casson, Islip, Long Island. My mother is a widow; I don't think she can stand " Then he died went out abruptly into eternity. Beside him, in the grass, lay a zouave watching everything with great hollow eyes.
The fluffy, abbreviated tarletan skirts of two women bareback riders who stood not more than two yards away seemed tawdry and flimsy at close range; the pink fleshings of the world's greatest somersault artist looked rumpled and fuzzy; the zouave costume of the lady rope-walker lost its satiny sheen through propinquity; the clown was dusty and greasy and stuffy.
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