If I had not done so much--I, a soldier of
Africa--why, I should have deserved to have been shot like a cat--bah!
should I not? It was not I who saved the battle. Who was it? It was
a Chasseur d'Afrique, I tell you. What did he do? Why, this. When his
officers were all gone down, he rallied, and gathered his
handful of men, and held the ground with them all through the
day--two--four--six--eight--ten hours in the scorch of the sun. The
Arbicos, even were forced to see that was grand; they offered him life
if he would yield. All his answer was to form his few horsemen into line
as well as he could for the slain, and charge--a last charge in which
he knew not one of his troop could live through the swarms of the Arabs
around them. That I saw with my own eyes. I and my Spahis just reached
him in time. Then who is it that saved the day, I pray you?--I, who just
ran a race for fun and came in at the fag-end of the thing, or this man
who lived the whole day through in the carnage, and never let go of the
guidon, but only thought how to die greatly? I tell you, the Cross is
his, and not mine. Take it back, and give it where it is due."
The Marshal listened, half amazed, half amused--half prepared to resent
the insult to the Empire and to discipline, half disposed to award that
submission to her caprice which all Algeria gave to Cigarette.
"Mademoiselle," he said, with a grave smile, "the honors of the Empire
are not to be treated thus.
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