The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20Stevenson, Robert Louis
General
The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
insensibly communicated themselves to every one present. We ate like
mice in a cat's ear; if one of us jingled a teaspoon, all would start;
and when the hour came to take the road again, we drew a long breath of
relief, and climbed to our places in the covered cart with a positive
sense of escape. The most of our meals, however, were taken boldly at
hedge-row alehouses, usually at untimely hours of the day, when the
clients were in the field or the farmyard at labour. I shall have to
tell presently of our last experience of the sort, and how unfortunately
it miscarried; but as that was the signal for my separation from my
fellow-travellers I must first finish with them.
I had never any occasion to waver in my first judgment of the Colonel.
The old gentleman seemed to me, and still seems in the retrospect, the
salt of the earth. I had occasion to see him in the extremes of
hardship, hunger, and cold; he was dying, and he looked it; and yet I
cannot remember any hasty, harsh, or impatient word to have fallen from
his lips. On the contrary, he ever showed himself careful to please; and
even if he rambled in his talk, rambled always gently--like a humane,
half-witted old hero, true to his colours to the last. I would not dare
to say how often he awoke suddenly from a lethargy, and told us again,
as though we had never heard it, the story of how he had earned the
Cross, how it had been given him by the hand of the Emperor, and of the
innocent--and, indeed, foolish--sayings of his daughter when he returned
with it on his bosom. He had another anecdote which he was very apt to
give, by way of a rebuke, when the Major wearied us beyond endurance
with dispraises of the English. This was an account of the _braves gens_
with whom he had been boarding. True enough, he was a man so simple and
grateful by nature, that the most common civilities were able to touch
him to the heart, and would remain written in his memory; but from a
thousand inconsiderable but conclusive indications, I gathered that this
family had really loved him, and loaded him with kindness. They made a
fire in his bedroom, which the sons and daughters tended with their own
hands; letters from France were looked for with scarce more eagerness by
himself than by these alien sympathisers; when they came, he would read
them aloud in the parlour to the assembled family, translating as he
went. The Colonel's English was elementary; his daughter not in the
least likely to be an amusing correspondent; and, as I conceived these
scenes in the parlour, I felt sure the interest centred in the Colonel
himself, and I thought I could feel in my own heart that mixture of the
ridiculous and the pathetic, the contest of tears and laughter, which
must have shaken the bosoms of the family. Their kindness had continued
till the end. It appears they were privy to his flight; the camlet cloak
had been lined expressly for him, and he was the bearer of a letter from
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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