The National tribune. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1877-1917, 1897-01-14
The

At the time when 1 was employed In the
War Office, / had a companion who worked
| in the same room with nae, called Jean Vidal,
an old non on-commissioned officer, who had
lost his left arm in the italian campaign, but
| who had still his right hand-the cunning
handn of Quartermaster-with which he
executed all sorts of wonders in the calli-
graphic line-roun1hand, -four ishes, Gothic
letters; and he could draw little bird in
the final flourish of his signature with a
single stroke of his pen.
He was an upright man, was Vidal; a
true type of a pure-hearted and honorable
soldier. Though he was scarcely 40 then, and
there was but spr;nkling of gray hairs in
his fair Zouave beard, in the Office we all
called him Pere Vidal," less out of fami-
liarity than out of respect; for we all knew
his honorable. self denying life down there
in his cheap lodging at the bottom ofGrenelle,
where he had taken in his sister, a widow
with a tribe of children, and where he sup
ported the whole family on the slender in
come derived from his pension. his cross, and
his salary. Three Thousand francs for five
people, And Pere Vidal's coats-with the
left sleeve, the empty sleeve. fastened to the
third button-were always brushed as if he
was going to a review, and the good man was
so careful of his red ribbon, which he always
kept bright. that be used to take it ont of
his button-hole when he carried parcel in
the street
As lived in the suburbs toward the south
of Paris at that time, often walked home
with Pere Vidal, and / used to take pleasure
in getting him TO give me an account OF his
campaigns, as we walked past the Military
School, meeting at every step-it was in the
latter years of the Empire-the handsome
uniforms of the Imperial Guards, the pio-
neers in green, the lancers in white, the artil-
lery officers in their magnificent somber
uniforms-black and gold. 1t was worth
while to get killed in such costume as
that.
Sometimes in tho warm Summer evenings
/ used TO treat my companion to an absinthe
"a pleasure that poor Vidal denied himself,
out of economy we used to sit for half
an hour in front Of the officers cafe, in the
Avenue de la Motte-Piquet. On these
days the old Quartermaster-who had be-
come sober, family man, and was out OF
the habit of taking "appetizers used 10
rise from the table with his brain stimulated
to heroic thoughts, and was sure to have
some stirring tale Of the war as we walked
home.
One EVENING" believe, God forgive me!
tDat Gere Nldai haQ drunk TWO glasses Oi
absinthe-as we went along that hOrrid
Boulevard de Grenelle, he stopped suddenly
before the window of d-hand- clothes
shop-tbere are good many in that quar-
ter. 1t was dirty, sordid shop, with rusty
pistols, bowls full of buttons, and furnished
epaulettes in the window; and hanging be-
fore the door, among dirty rags. there was
here and there some old officers coat, rotted
by the rain aud fretted by the sun, with a
sort of vague human resemblance in its
tight waist and broad shoulders.
Vidal seized my arm with his one hand,
and pointed with his stump to one of these
cast-off garments-it WAS the tunic of an
African officer, with its manipulated skirt
and its triple gold band twisted into figure
of eight on the sleeve, as the hussaIs wear it.
"Look here" said he; this is the uni
form of my old corps-a Captains tunic."