Wessington Springs herald. (Wessington Springs, Aurora County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1891, 1884-02-01
THE OLD COAT.

When L was copying clerk in the Of
flee Of the Minister of War, one of my
colleagues and friends was Jean Vidal,
an old sub~otiicer, who, though he had
lost his latt arm during the Italian cam
paign, still possessed his right hand,
with which he executed marvellous '.cal-
i%graphics'' in round, angular and Gothic
styles and could with one stroke of his
pen draw a little bird in the initials of
his signature.
A worthy man was Vidal-the type
of the old soldier, upright and true.
Although barely forty and only a few
gray hairs were to be seen in the Zouave's
light beard, every one in the office
called him Father Vidal. but with less
familiarity than respect. for we knew of
his life of love and devotion in the cheap
little rooms yonder, at the lower end Of
Grenelle. where he had made a home for
his sister, a widow with numerous chill
dren, and supported them all upon his
slender income, which consisted of a
small sum from his medal, his pension
and salary. Three thousand francs a
yearfor five persons! Notwithstanding
this, however, Father Vidal's coat, with
one empty sleeve fastened to his third
button, was always brushed as if ready
for inspection, and the good man thought
SO much of his red ribbon, always a
bright one, that he drew it from his
button-hole whenever he carried a pack
age in the street; a pair Of boots from
Iatour's, rue Montorgueil, or a pair of
trousers bought that morning at La Belle
Jardiniere.
As l was then living in the suburbs
south of Paris, Father Vidal was often
my companion in the walk home, and 1
amused myself by making him talk of
his companions, while passing through
that quarter L'Ecole Militaire, where
one met at each step-it was during the
latter years OF the Empire-the hand
some uniforms of the Imperial Guard,
fuglemen in green, white Lancers, and
those somber but magnificent artillery,
officers in black and gold.
Sometimes, on warm summer even
ings, l would treat my companion to a
glass of absinthe, a luxury of which poor
Vidal deprived himself for economy's
sake, and we would rest for an hour in
the officers restaurant on the avenue
de la Mothe-Piquet. On such occasions
the old soldier, who was the steadiest of
paterfamilias and but little inclined to
talk freely, used to rise from the table
with head SO muddled by the brandy,
that l was very sure of hearing during
the remainder of the walk some inter-
esting tale Of the war.
One evening-God forgive me, for /
believe Father Vidal had taken two
glasses of absinthe-while passing
through the horrible Boulevard de
Grenelle, he stopped suddenly before
the door of a secondhand military
clothes merchant. This, like many
Others in that quarter, was a dirty,
gloomy shop, in whose window was dis.
played rusty pistols, bowls filled with
buttons, furnished epaulettes, and in
front OF which hung, among other filthy
rags, a few old coats once worn by Off
GERS, and now rotting under the rain
and sunshine, but which, preserving
their original shapes about the waist
and shoulders, had still almost a human
aspect.
Selling my arm with his only re-
manning hand, and looking at me with
eyes somewhat bleared, Vidal raised his
stump and pointed to one OF the old gar.
mcnts-an African officers coat, with
plated skirt, and the three gold stripes
extending up the sleeve and forming a
figure eight, a la Housarde.
"Look," said he, ''that is the uniform
OF my old corps-a Captains coat"
And upon close examination he read
the number engraved upon the buttons,
and continued excitedly:
"lt is my regiment-the First Zou.
ayes"
But suddenly Father Vidal's hand,
which had already grasped the coat, fell
motionless, his face saddened, his lips
trembled, and casting down his eyes, he
murmured in startled tones:
"My God! Can it be his?" He then
quickly turned the coat around, when
saw, in the middle of the back, a small
EougQ hole in the cloth. as though made