The sergeant's brain was going round like a
top. It was not he that challenged after all.
"Soldier of the Old Guard," cried Valmond, in a clear, ringing voice,
"how far is it to Friedland?"
Like a machine the veteran's hand again went up to his cap, and he
answered:
"To Friedland--the width of a ditch!"
His voice shook as he said it, and the world to him was all a muddle
then; for Napoleon the Great had asked a private this question after that
battle on the Alle, when Berningsen, the Russian, threw away an army to
the master strategist.
The private had answered the question in the words of Sergeant Lagroin.
It was a saying long afterwards among the Old Guard, though it may not be
found in the usual histories of that time, where every battalion, almost
every company, had a watchword, which passed to make room for others, as
victory followed victory.
"Soldier of the Old Guard," said Valmond again, "how came you by those
scars upon your forehead?"
"I was a drummer at Auerstadt, a corporal at Austerlitz, a sergeant at
Waterloo," rolled back the reply, in a high, quavering voice, as memories
of great events blew in upon the ancient fires of his spirit.
"Ah!" answered Valmond, nodding eagerly; "with Davoust at Auerstadt--
thirty against sixty thousand men. At eight o'clock, all fog and mist,
as you marched up the defile towards the Sonnenberg hills, the brave
Gudin and his division feeling their way to Blucher.
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