"Certainly, it is quite true."

"With a negress?"

"Not exactly."

"With a mulatress?"

"Not exactly; it was with one of my fellow-
townswomen whose husband was a coalheaver."

"Chargent, why does the commandant of the
first battalion wear green spectacles?"

"When his wife gives him a glass of sugar
and water, it is to make him fancy it a glass of
hock."

As long as the oldest trooper can remember,
the Hundred and First has always had in its
ranks a sergeant who saved a general. At
Fontenoy, Wagram, and Montereau, the glorious
deed was performed, In Spain, during the
campaign of '23, a sergeant found an opportunity
of saving a lieutenant-general, who, in truth,
was in no great danger; but seeing the difficulties
at the time of finding a general more
exposed, they could not be over-particular, and
the Hundred and First maintained its traditional
heroism. Alma and Inkermann were inscribed
in glorious letters on the regimental flag, without
the possibility occurring of saving a general.
They saved superior officers, captains, lieutenants,
subalterns, corporals, and soldiers, but
nothing in the shape of a general. A man is a
man, and it is a very fine thing to save one's
fellow-creature, but humanity once satisfied,
vanity holds up her head. It is of no use talking;
one is better pleased to save a general than
a musician, to say nothing about a sapper and
miner. Besides, it was necessary for the honour
of the corps; the colonel several times alluded
to it with some degree of bitterness.  But it is
probable that the persevering way in which the
subalterns of the Hundred and First watched
over their generals, prevented even the likelihood
of their ever falling into danger.

This topic was the general subject of conversation
in camp, when, during the night of the
15th of February, 1855, Sergeant Blandureau
with four volunteers was posted in an ambuscade
situated about forty yards from the French
parallels, and about seventy from the Russian
batteries. The weather was enough to kill a
dog; there was the silence of death and so thick
a darkness, that you could not tell a foraging-
cap from a twenty-four cannon-ball. Sergeant
Blandureau had to remain there fourteen hours
—from half-past four in the afternoon, till half-
past seven in the morning; and, to pass the
time, he could not even venture on the resource
of smoking. The light of his pipe would have
betrayed him to the enemy; and he was placed
there to give the alarm to the guard of the
trenches, in case of a sally. With his eye on
the watch, his neck stretched to its utmost
length, and his ear attentive, the brave subaltern
could not prevent his thoughts from wandering
to his native village, when the sound of a trumpet
recalled them.

"Listen, sergeant," whispered one of his
companions; "they are going to be at it again
to-night——"

The poor wretch had no time to say more; a
Russian bayonet pinned the rest of the sentence
in his throat. The other three volunteers were
instantly killed. The sergeant had scarcely time
to give the alarm by discharging his musket,
when he was felled to the ground with gun-stock
blows. But a sergeant of the Hundred and
First is not so easily settled; he is tough enough
to stand a score of hard knocks. Blandureau
was a little stunned; nothing more.

The Russians were vigorously repulsed. A
calm succeeded to the cannonade. Sergeant
Blandureau recovered his senses, sought for his
comrades, called them by name. Dead!  All
dead! He was the sole survivor. He determined
to regain the trenches. Still bewildered
by the contusions he had received, he groped his
way with difficulty. All was black around him;
at every step he stumbled over a corpse. Is the
Hundred and First never to set eyes on its sergeant
again? Courage, then! And on he plodded
again. Once more he tripped against a body
stretched on the ground. It was that of a
Frenchman, still alive; for it rapped out so
energetic a "Nom de Dieu!" that the Russians,
who were only twenty paces off, heard it.

A cannon illumined the scene for an instant.
Blandureau heard the grape-shot plough up the
earth; a biscayan shattered his gun.  Misfortune
is always good for something; the flash showed
him the direction to follow. He resolutely
hoisted on his shoulders the comrade who had
procured him this friendly greeting from the
Russians.

"Sacrebleu!" he thought, as he toddled along,
"here's a fellow who does not starve himself!
The clocks of Sebastopol are striking three in
the morning, and I have yet a good long walk
to take, with this well-fed individual on my
back."

And so he tottered and stumbled along,
sometimes wrong and sometimes right, over rough
ground, among dead bodies and broken weapons,
until at last he deposited his burden in the
battery which guarded his regiment, and then
fainted.

Next morning, Blandureau woke up as fresh
as if he had passed the night in his bed.
"Where's my wounded man?" he cried, rubbing
his eyes. "Let me see the little lamb who
could not walk because he had a couple of
bullets in his belly."

"Here he is," they said, pointing to a person
surrounded with surgeons, who were dressing
his wounds with the most anxious care.

"The general!"

"Yes, my brave fellow.  Come, and let me
press you in my arms."

"The general! 'Twas the general!" shouted
Blandureau, half crazy with joy.

"Yes, indeed; 'tis I. Come to me, I say?"

"Oh, general!"

"You are a brave fellow; thank you. I shall
never forget that I owe you my life."

"As for that, general, you are under no great
obligation.  I took you for one of my comrades
so thoroughly as to call you a little lamb.  But
since it is you, general, you may be sure that—