CHAPTER I.

Take any young creature of warm, generous disposition, put a military coat on her fair young shoulders, a smart military hat on her head, and hang a little brandy keg over her right hip, and then you have a delightful vivandiere of the grand army--a very honest, decent kind of girl.

_Our_ vivandiere was called the daughter of the regiment, for she knew no other parents than the rough, but warm-hearted soldiers. They found a little child on the field of battle; they nurtured her, and called her “Marie.”

Many units of her collective father were knocked over before Marie grew to be a very pretty girl; but, spite of continual arrivals, seeing their daughter for the first time, there were many who remembered Marie being found, and with her a letter, and nobody better than Sergeant Sulpice--who always kept the letter, and who, in fact, had picked it and Marie up when he was a full private, and quite a new recruit.

Well, they taught Marie to tap her drum at a very early early age, and she tapped it till she was nearly seventeen; and on her birthday, and all other social festivals, she tapped it very loud and fast.

The French were scudding all over Switzerland, and nobody was more frightened, then and there, than the Marquise de Berkenfelt. As a rule, the Swiss opposed the French bravely, but the marquise was a disgrace to her title.

She stood among the villagers of her particular village trembling far move than the young girls. As for the marquise--fifty, if a day!

She could not return to the castle, and yet she could not stay where she was,--and then, the enemy might be down on them in a moment.

“Plan--plan--rataplan,” away in the distance.

The marquise’s steward immediately assured her that the men were retreating, and the marquise was immensely glad to hear it. She would not, however, go back to that castle of hers, but chose to sit on a secluded rock, while the steward went to reconnoitre. Barely was she left to herself than Sergeant Sulpice was walking rapidly past her.

“By the lock of a musket, if they could fight as they can run, we should be sent back to France in a week. Aye, run--run--as though peace was not proclaimed. Hallo! here comes Marie--Marie of the 11th.”

“Oh’ é--é--é--Salute, Sulpice.”

“Here comes the heart of the regiment.”

“Well--I think I begin to do you credit.”

“Angel.”

“Pooh--nonsense. Soldier! Born in a camp--the roll of the drum my only lullaby--a drum my only toy--except you--you grizzly old father, you.”

“The regiment is lucky to have a Marie.”

“Marie is lucky to have a regiment, you mean. Why, each man was her carriage when she was a child--her rations were better than any one’s;--yes she ate and drank to the trun--trun--trun of the drum. And now--now I’m grown up--every man touches his shako to me.”

“They revere you.”

“Revere, nonsense--they love me. Don’t I too have all the pleasure of the camp!”

“Yes, and who takes care of the camp?--who has a kind word and hand for a wounded man, while she gives the other hand to him who comes to help her?”

“Yes--and who is it fills your glasses--and sings you songs?”

“Yes--and who makes us happy?”

“Why, _not_ the daughter of the regiment!”

“Oh--of course not!”

“Now--now--now--Sergeant--attention. Right about face. Ma-a-a-r-r-rch!”----

“Tum--tum--tum--Ra-ra-ra-ra.”

And so--drilling her drum--she and the sergeant march off to the camp.

Barely had they marched off from the neighborhood of the marquise, when following them or rather her, with his eyes, came a young Swiss--as handsome as you would have him, ladies--perfection.

Truth to tell, Tony _was_ handsome.

Also truth to tell, he had fallen in love with Marie. And love, the conqueror, had even whispered to him to turn traitor to his country, and enlist in the ranks of the army, and, it need not be said, the ranks of the glorious 11th. Then he would be near _her_--then, perhaps, he should some day marry her. And he _might_ become a general. And she--she would be the general’s lady. “Why not?” He was honest (except in the matter of patriotism), good-humored, and handsome--why should she _not_ fall in love with him?

But seeing the sergeant and Marie returning, he ran to shelter and to shadow immediately.

“Well, but Sulpice,--why not say it as we walked along? What need to come to this quiet spot as you call it?”

“Because I want to speak to you in private.”

“Attention!”

“You are a fine tall girl, and you are handsome.”

“Is _that_ what you want to tell me in private. Why I’m told so _fifty_ times a day.”

“And----”

“Oh there’s an end!”

“And--and you ought to look out for a husband.”

“You mean a husband ought to look out for me. Plenty of time--plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time? Then who was that you were talking to at our last encampment?”

“Who--who? Let me see; ah, the Tyrolese youth who saved my life, you know!”

“Your life? How?”

“Attention! but what’s that noise?”

For there was a great disturbance as though somebody was being pushed about, and as though somebody was rather objecting to it.

“A spy--a spy--a spy.”

And the next moment Tony was being lugged before the sergeant by as many of the brave 11th as could conveniently keep a hold on him at one and the same moment. He butting, kicking, and struggling all the while.

“Spy--no spy--I want to be a soldier.

“‘Tis he--’tis he.”

“What the young Tyrolese, Marie?”

“Of course it is, Sulpice; who else could it be? Your servant, Tyrolese--what brings you here?”

“Hang him--hang him--a spy!” shrieked out a full dozen of the brave 11th.

“What--hang him--who saved my life?”

“Cré-é-é-é--’tis another affair that--he shall live,” decided also at least a dozen of the brave 11th.

“But for him I should have been at this moment at the bottom of a frightful precipice. Yes; and he nearly lost his own life.”

“Brother--he’s a brother--he shall be one of us!” was the dictum of the men of the brave 11th. “Give him a welcome. Marie--a glass of brandy.”

Briskly Marie poured it out.

“Long live the French--my new friends,” said the new recruit, raising his glass.

“Hurrah--hurrah.”

Then was heard a roll of the drum--the call to camp in fact.

“Come--come--comrade,” said they to Tony. But Tony showed a desire to stay; and so also did Marie. So she called out, “Leave him with me, I’ll answer for him. You know--he’s my prisoner.”

But they wouldn’t part with him, and hurried him away.

She was preparing to follow the soldiers--when with a run he was at her side, quite out of breath. She did not care about following the soldiers now. Truth to tell, she sat down on a bank and began chatting.

“Here I am, you see.”

“What already?”

“La--when I gave them the slip--the sergeant roared like a bull.”

“Ah--my father!”

“(Confound it.) No--one near him.”

“Well--_he’s_ my father.

“I mean the old man.”

“And _he’s_ my father too!”

“Why, the whole regiment?”

“Exactly so. The whole regiment is my father.”

“Ah! I see.”

“But now tell me, why have you followed the regiment? I thought when I said good bye to you that I should never, never see you again.”

“I don’t think you did think so, because you must have known I couldn’t live away from you, because you must have known I loved you, and I _do_ love you.”

“Ha, ha!”

“Will you not believe me?”

“Well--I don’t know.”

“From the moment I saved you--I have known no rest.”

“Ah--then you had better not have saved me. But want of rest don’t prove you love me!”

“But I have left my friends and my country to follow you!”

“Such desertion I can’t pardon!”--

“And I would die for you--and I will!”

“Oh nonsense--why die? When a youth loves a girl he should live for her.”

“Marie!”

“Ah--well. Here’s the decision of the court martial:--I think you _do_ love me. And--and _I_ don’t feel so free as I did.”

“Then you do not hate me.”

“Hate!--no--no. Here am I,” she thought, “Who always hated the enemy,--here am I--talking with one of them--and--and not disliking to talk! And--and Tony,” she said, slyly, “that flower you gave me--I have it now.”

Whereupon and thereupon he clasped her to his heart like a man.

“Ho--ho-ho--by the lock of a musket,” said Sergeant Sulpice, coming up in time to witness this delightful embrace. “The Tyrolese, who just now escaped!”

“Sergeant--I’m Marie’s husband’s self.”

“Traitor!”

“Tut--tut--tut--sergeant,” said the little vivandiere, coming before Marie’s husband’s self--like a bastion--“qui-i-i-iet.”

“I say Marie is already promised to the bravest in our ranks.”

“Pooh! a girl can’t marry her own father, you know. Besides, your own words prove Tony’s right. You say I’m promised to the bravest man in the regiment,--well, he’s of the regiment--and was either of _you_ so brave as to save my life?”

“Good--Marie--good!”

“Si-i-i-i-ilence--private!”

“I may speak, sergeant.”

“I say she shall marry one of us.”

“Shall--sergeant? Then here it is. I will marry Tony, and I will marry nobody else but Tony.”

“Gone over to the enemy bag and baggage. But as for you, my man, I’ll break your bones.”

“Attention--march--Tony.” And away the two went, leaving Sergeant Sulpice boiling with rage.

He was walking away, when the marquis’s steward approached very respectfully.

“Captain--pardon.”

“By Bacchus--if she marries him.

“Him--captain--pardon.”

“Hullo! there, don’t be afraid.”

“Captain.”

“Ser-r-rgeant.”

“Surely, surely, sergeant, this lady would ask a favor.”

“Oh, Sir! I’m terribly frightened. I was endeavoring--I am still terribly frightened--but your men stopped me. I was endeavoring to reach my castle--my castle of Berkenfelt.”

“Berkenfelt.”

“Berkenfelt. Do you know my castle of Berkenfelt?”

“Now, what connexion can there be between Captain Bazancourt and that name.” The grizzly sergeant said this amusingly, but it had a strange effect on the aristocrat.

“Captain Bazancourt, did you say Captain Bazancourt?”

“Yes, you know him perhaps!”

“Know him--yes--my sister--I think--was secretly married to him--and their daughter.”

“Marie? She is the pearl of the regiment.”

“Does she live?”

“She does if _I_ do. Steady, lady, steady.”

For the lady had to lean against the bank on which Marie had been sitting.

“I’faith, Marie’s fortune is made.”

“But the proof, the proof.”

“The proof--this letter, then!”

And from his stout breast the sergeant pulled forth a tough old pocket book, and from the book he took a letter.

This letter had been written just before the battle in which the captain fell. He had confided it and the child to a servant, who was unluckily knocked over by a stray shot. The child was found sitting by the dead servant, and there being no clue beyond the letter, which simply named the castle of Berkenfelt, the child was then and there adopted by the regiment, and taught to carry brandy keg, be good-humored and brisk, and beat a drum, as, indeed, has already been explained.

The lady took the letter I discovered with some emotion, but in the midst of it, she contrived to say, “I hope she has been well brought up.”

“Brought up, marquise, in the most genteel and polite manner!

“I’m sure her aunt--I am, of course, her aunt--I’m sure I’m very glad to hear it.”

“Par-r-r-r-bleu! Par-r-r-r-bleu! Here you are, Sulpice, and there you are wanted.--Par-r-r-bleu!”

“Great impossibles--can that be her,” asked the marquise of herself. And the steward opened his eyes at this terrible talking young woman.

“‘Tis she,” said the sergeant to the lady.

“Co-r-r-r-bleau!” again commended Marie, marching up to the sergeant. “Cor-r-r-r-bleu, do you call this duty, Sergeant Sulpice?”

“Why, she’s positively pulling his moustache,” said the marquise, so far forgetting her dignity as to speak familiarly with her own house-steward. “What an education.”

The steward was dolefully and properly shocked.

“Come--come--old grumbler, come along, or I’ll pull you by your grizzly upper-lip.”

“Order--order.”

“Come--come along, then; the whole family is waiting for you.”

“Marie--we’ve lost one of the family.”

“When--how--where--what--whom?”

“You!”

“Parbleu! What do you mean?”

“The owner of the old letter is found.”

“Co-r-r-r-bleu! Where is he?”

“She.”

“Well, where is she?”

“Here--here--dear girl! I am your--aunt.”

“Niece--you my aunt? Cor-r-r-r-par-r-r-bleu. Exchange for another regiment--no!”

“Your soldier’s life is over now, Marie.”

“Not till my life is--”

“NIECE!”

“Oh.”

“Read the letter, Marie--I, your father Sulpice, bid you read the letter.”

She took the old letter, which she had never much, thought of--for, whereas, somebody belonging to it had deserted her--she had found scores of fathers. She took the letter. Read it through. Let it fall. Covered her face with her hands. And the little daughter of the regiment quite wept again.

“Come, niece, come away. I have a pass, elegant, I presume, to my castle--my Castle of Berkenfelt.”

“Surely, marquise, I--I--dare say you will be happy, Marie.”

“Come, niece, come.” Then turning to the steward,

“Order our carriage.”

_Our_ carriage. The vivandiere’s carriage.

The marquise marched up in great state to her niece. But at that moment there was a tremendous to-do on the drums, and the next moment a score or so of stout soldiers, Tony among them, came forward. By this time they were quite friendly with Tony, and had somehow cause to perceive what an admirable arrangement his marrying their daughter, the vivandiere, would be.

“Ah, there you are, Marie.”

“Pray, _who_ is this young man?”

“Pardon, lady--Marie’s husband. Her fathers have said so.

“Fall back, private--fall back. There’s a general of division has stopped the match.”

“What?”

“Yes, comrade--Marie leaves us. The letter has done its work. This is Marie’s aunt.”

Perhaps many of the brave eleventh would have disputed this position with the butt end of a musket or so, but respect for their daughter stopped such a frightful proceeding; yet with one mighty voice they cried out,

“Marie going to leave us. No, no, she won’t leave us.”

“Leave us--no, no, Marie. Leave us--leave me, Tony?”

“I must, I must.” She was a very different being now from the brisk vivandiere. Before, she was all smiles, now she was all tears. “I must go. For shame, do not make me worse than I am.”

Tony took off his hat, which was decorated with the gay French cockade, and looked upon the innocent little fluttering ribbons with horror, for they told him he was bound to the regiment, and could not follow her.

“Pray is our carriage ready.”

“Good-bye, oh! good-bye all--all of you; and dear, dear Tony.”

The soldiers were rude enough to push the marquise aside, that they might shake the hands of Marie, and some actually kissed her.

“Men!” was the only remark the marquise could make. “Men!”

“Good-bye, oh! good-bye all--all of you; and dear, dear Tony.”

“When _will_ that carriage be ready?”

The carriage was ready at last, but as she stepped into it, she turned her head to her then old companions.

They had hoped she was going to run away to them, under which evidence of preference they would have defied the marquise, but the next moment she was seated, and “our carriage” rolled away.

Her eyes were upon her old friends till she could see no more for tears and distance.

And there poor Tony stood despairingly watching the carriage, his hat pressed with both hands to his heart, and the cruel, triumphant little ribbons fluttering about in the breeze.