St. Landry democrat., 1892-07-02
THE CAPTAINS VENGEANCE.
BY FRANCOIS COPPEE.

When l was copying clerk in the
Bureau OF the Ministry of War, I had
for my colleague and office comrade
one Jean Vidal, a former sub officer,
whose left arm had been amputated
during the Italian campaign, but
Nnose good right hand, with which he
executed caligraphic marvels, still
remained to him.
A worthy man this Vidal-the type
Of a pure and upright old soldier!
Although scarcely forty, with but
few gray hairs appearing in his Zou-
ave's blonde beard, already every one
Of us in the office called him Pere
Vidal, but with less familiarity than
respect, for we knew the honorable
and devoted life he led in his cheap
little lodgings down in the depths of
Grenelle into which he had taken his
sister, a widow with pack of chill.
dren, and in which he supported all
this family upon his meagre income.
that is to say, the money from his
cross, his pension and his salary-3OOO
francs for five persons. No matter!
Pere Nidal's coats-those coats, the
left sleeve, the empty sleeve, of which
was fastened up to the third button
were brushed as for the inspecting
generals review, and the good man
thought SO much of his red ribbon,
which was always new, that he re-
moved it from his button-hole when
ever he carried bundle in the streets
"a pair of boots from Latour's, in the
Rue Montorgueil, or fatigue trousers
bought IN the morn'ng at La Belle
Jardiniere.
AS l also dwelt at that time in the
suburbs of the south of Paris, I very
often walked with Pere Vidal on my
way home, and amused myself by get
ting him to talk about his campaign
While we were passing through The
quarter of the Ecole Militaire, where
one then met at every step-it was in
the last years of the Empire the
handsome uniforms of the Garde I'M
periale, guides in green, lancers in
white, and those somber and magniti-
cent artillery officers in black and
gold.
sometimes, on warm summer even
lngs, | treated my companion to alb
sinthe-a luxury which poor Vidal re-
fused himself for reasons of economy
and we stopped FOR half an hour in
front OF the Cafe d'Officiers, on the
avenue de la Mothe- Piquet. At such
times the former subofficer, who had
become as staid as the father of a
family, and grown entirely unaccus-
toned to absinthe, arose from the
table with his brain in a state Of he
rolc lntoXication, and / was very GER
tain to hear some fine story of war
during the rest of the walk.
One evening" believe, God forgive
me! that Pere Vidal had drunk two
glasses of absinthe--as we were pass
ing along the Boulevard de Grenelle,
he halted suddenly before the bulk
window of military slop-shop, of
which there are many in that quarter.
1t was a dirty and sinister shop,
displaying in its window rusty pis-
tolls, bowls full Of buttons and epau-
lettes Of furnished gold while in from t
Of the window, hanging among 9TH
er grimy rags, were some old officers
tunics, rotted by the rain, and faded
by the sun, but which, preserving the
shape of the waists and shoulders, still
had an almost human aspect.
Vidal, grasping my arm with his
only hand, and turning toward me his
somewhat unsteady glance, raised his
stump to point out one of these gar
ments-an African officers tunic, with
the hundred-fold skirt, and the three
gold stripes climbing up the sleeve in
the form of an eight.
Look!" said he, that's the uni
form OF my old corps-a captains
tunic.''
And, having approached to make a
closer examination Of the rag, he read
the number engraved upon the but
tons and resumed, enthusiastically.
It's from my regiment, it's from the
First Zouavesi"
suddenly, Pere Vidals hand,
wilica had already seized the skirt of
the old tunic, grew motionless, his
visage darkened, his lips trembled,
and, lowering his eyes, he murmured
with an accent Of fright:
Mon Dieui If it should be hisp'
Then, with a quick movement he