French fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, French -- Translations into English
When I believed that the fresh and sharp air of the night had
sufficiently cooled my blood, I returned to the fire; I enveloped
myself carefully in my mantle, and I closed my eyes, hoping not to open
them before day. But slumber refused to come. Insensibly my thoughts
took on a doleful hue. I told myself that I had not one friend among
the hundred thousand men who covered that plain. If I were wounded, I
should be in a hospital, treated without regard by ignorant surgeons.
All that I had heard said of surgical operations recurred to my memory.
My heart thumped with violence, and mechanically I arranged like a
kind of cuirass the handkerchief and the portfolio I had in my bosom.
Weariness overwhelmed me, I nodded every instant, and every instant
some sinister idea reproduced itself with renewed force and startled me
out of my sleep.
However, fatigue carried the day, and when they beat the reveille,
I was sound asleep. We were drawn up in battle array, the roll was
called, then we stacked arms, and everything indicated that we should
pass a tranquil day.
About three o’clock, an aide-de-camp arrived, bringing an order. We
were ordered to take up arms again; our skirmishers spread themselves
over the plain; we followed slowly, and in about twenty minutes we saw
all the Russian advance-posts fall back and reënter the redoubt.
One battery of artillery was established on our right, another at
our left, but both well in advance of us. They opened a very lively
fire upon the enemy, who replied vigorously, and soon the redoubt of
Cheverino disappeared under the dense clouds of smoke.
Our regiment was almost covered from the Russian fire by a rise of
ground. Their bullets, rarely aimed at us (for they preferred to fire
at our gunners), passed over our heads, or at worst showered us with
earth and little stones.
As soon as we had received the order to march forward, my captain
looked at me with an attention which obliged me to pass my hand two or
three times over my youthful mustache with an air as unconcerned as
was possible to me. In truth, I was not frightened, and the sole fear
that I experienced was lest he should imagine that I was afraid. The
harmless bullets contributed still more to maintain me in my heroic
calm. My self-esteem told me that I was going into real danger, since
at last I was under battery fire. I was enchanted to be so at my ease,
and I dreamed with pleasure of telling in the salon of Madame B----,
rue de Provence, how the redoubt of Cheverino was taken.
The colonel passed before our company; he said to me: “Well, you are
going to have hot work for your début.”
I smiled with a perfectly martial air as I brushed the sleeve of my
coat, on which a bullet that had struck the earth thirty yards away had
cast a little dust.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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