connection to Hussar Boulot’s. He thought of his friend Father Blanès; if only he could consult him now! Then he remembered that he had not written to his aunt since leaving Paris. “Poor Gina!” he thought, and tears came to his eyes, when suddenly he heard a faint noise quite close by; it was a soldier allowing his three horses to graze on the wheat—he had taken the bits out of their mouths and was holding them by the snaffles. Fabrizio rose out of the standing grain like a partridge, startling the soldier. Our hero noticed this and yielded to the pleasure of playing the hussar for a moment. “One of those horses is mine, you bastard!” he shouted. “But I don’t mind giving you five francs for the trouble you’ve taken to bring it here.”
“What kind of fool do you take me for?” the soldier asked.
Fabrizio took aim at a range of six paces. “Let go of the horse or I’ll blow your head off!”
The soldier’s musket was slung over one shoulder, which he lowered in order to catch hold of his weapon.
“One more move and you’re a dead man!” cried Fabrizio, rushing at him.
“All right, give me the five francs and take one of the horses,” the soldier said, bewildered after a longing glance at the high road, where there was no one in sight. Fabrizio, keeping his musket raised in his left hand, tossed him three five-franc coins with his right. “Dismount or you’re a dead man.… Saddle the black, and take the other two away.… I’ll fire, the first move you make.” The soldier sullenly obeyed. Fabrizio went over to the black horse and slid the reins onto his left arm without losing sight of the soldier, who was slowly walking away; when Fabrizio saw that he was some fifty paces off he quickly vaulted onto the horse. No sooner had he mounted, groping for the right stirrup with his right foot, than he heard a bullet whistling past his ear: the soldier was firing his musket. In a rage Fabrizio rushed toward him, but the soldier turned and ran, and soon Fabrizio saw him galloping off on one of his two remaining horses. “Good, now he’s out of range,” he decided. The horse he had just bought was a fine one but seemed nearly starved to death. Fabrizio returned to the high road, where there wasstill no one in sight, crossed it, and trotted his horse to a little fold in the terrain to the left, where he hoped to meet up with the canteen-woman; but when he reached the top of the little hill, all he could see, for more than a league, were a few scattered troops. “I’m fated never to see her again,” he said to himself with a sigh, “what a good creature!” He soon reached a farm he had noticed in the distance, to the right of the high road. Without dismounting, and after paying in advance, he had the farmer give some oats to his poor horse, so famished that it was gnawing the manger. An hour afterward, Fabrizio was trotting down the high road, still hoping to meet the canteen-woman or at least Corporal Aubry. Riding on and peering in all directions, he reached a marshy stream crossed by a narrow wooden bridge. At the bridge, to the right of the high road, was a solitary house with a sign saying THE WHITE HORSE. “At least I’ll get something to eat there,” Fabrizio decided. A mounted cavalry officer with his arm in a sling stood at the bridgehead, looking extremely downcast; ten paces away, three more cavalrymen without horses were filling their pipes.
“Now those men,” Fabrizio mused, “look to me as if they wanted to buy this horse for even less than it cost me.” The wounded officer and the three men on foot watched him approach and seemed to be waiting for him. “I’d better not cross the stream by this bridge, I’ll follow along to the right, that will be the road the canteen-woman told me to take in order to get away from here.… Yes,” our hero decided, “but if I seem to be running away, I’ll be ashamed of myself tomorrow; besides, my horse has good legs, and the
“What kind of fool do you take me for?” the soldier asked.
Fabrizio took aim at a range of six paces. “Let go of the horse or I’ll blow your head off!”
The soldier’s musket was slung over one shoulder, which he lowered in order to catch hold of his weapon.
“One more move and you’re a dead man!” cried Fabrizio, rushing at him.
“All right, give me the five francs and take one of the horses,” the soldier said, bewildered after a longing glance at the high road, where there was no one in sight. Fabrizio, keeping his musket raised in his left hand, tossed him three five-franc coins with his right. “Dismount or you’re a dead man.… Saddle the black, and take the other two away.… I’ll fire, the first move you make.” The soldier sullenly obeyed. Fabrizio went over to the black horse and slid the reins onto his left arm without losing sight of the soldier, who was slowly walking away; when Fabrizio saw that he was some fifty paces off he quickly vaulted onto the horse. No sooner had he mounted, groping for the right stirrup with his right foot, than he heard a bullet whistling past his ear: the soldier was firing his musket. In a rage Fabrizio rushed toward him, but the soldier turned and ran, and soon Fabrizio saw him galloping off on one of his two remaining horses. “Good, now he’s out of range,” he decided. The horse he had just bought was a fine one but seemed nearly starved to death. Fabrizio returned to the high road, where there wasstill no one in sight, crossed it, and trotted his horse to a little fold in the terrain to the left, where he hoped to meet up with the canteen-woman; but when he reached the top of the little hill, all he could see, for more than a league, were a few scattered troops. “I’m fated never to see her again,” he said to himself with a sigh, “what a good creature!” He soon reached a farm he had noticed in the distance, to the right of the high road. Without dismounting, and after paying in advance, he had the farmer give some oats to his poor horse, so famished that it was gnawing the manger. An hour afterward, Fabrizio was trotting down the high road, still hoping to meet the canteen-woman or at least Corporal Aubry. Riding on and peering in all directions, he reached a marshy stream crossed by a narrow wooden bridge. At the bridge, to the right of the high road, was a solitary house with a sign saying THE WHITE HORSE. “At least I’ll get something to eat there,” Fabrizio decided. A mounted cavalry officer with his arm in a sling stood at the bridgehead, looking extremely downcast; ten paces away, three more cavalrymen without horses were filling their pipes.
“Now those men,” Fabrizio mused, “look to me as if they wanted to buy this horse for even less than it cost me.” The wounded officer and the three men on foot watched him approach and seemed to be waiting for him. “I’d better not cross the stream by this bridge, I’ll follow along to the right, that will be the road the canteen-woman told me to take in order to get away from here.… Yes,” our hero decided, “but if I seem to be running away, I’ll be ashamed of myself tomorrow; besides, my horse has good legs, and the
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