The overheated little town of grey
stones and red tiles was drowsing away its provincial afternoon under
a blue sky. The loud blows of a cooper hooping a cask reverberated
regularly between the houses. The general dragged his left foot a little
in the shade of the walls.
"This damned winter of 1813 has got into my bones for good. Never
mind. We must take pistols, that's all. A little lumbago. We must have
pistols. He's game for my bag. My eyes are as keen as ever. You should
have seen me in Russia picking off the dodging Cossacks with a beastly
old infantry musket. I have a natural gift for firearms."
In this strain General Feraud ran on, holding up his head, with owlish
eyes and rapacious beak. A mere fighter all his life, a cavalry man, a
sabreur, he conceived war with the utmost simplicity, as, in the main, a
massed lot of personal contests, a sort of gregarious duelling. And here
he had in hand a war of his own. He revived. The shadow of peace
passed away from him like the shadow of death. It was the marvellous
resurrection of the named Feraud, Gabriel Florian, engage volontaire
of 1793, General of 1814, buried without ceremony by means of a service
order signed by the War Minister of the Second Restoration.
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