"Soldier," said Valmond softly, "with 'the Little Sword that Danced' play
up the feet of the army."
A light broke over the old man's face. The swift look he cast on Valmond
had no distrust now. Instantly his hand went to his cap.
"My General!" he said, and stepped in front of the white horse. There was
a moment's pause, and then the sergeant's arms were raised, and down came
the sticks with a rolling rattle on the leather. They sent a shiver of
feeling through the village, and turned the meek white horse into a
charger of war. No man laughed at the drama performed in Pontiac that
day, not even the little coterie who were present, not even Monsieur De
la Riviere, whose brow was black with hatred, for he had watched 'the
eyes of Madame Chalice fill with tears at the old sergeant's tale of
Auerstadt, had noticed her admiring glance, "at this damned comedian," as
he now called Valmond. When he came to her carriage, she said, with
oblique suggestion:
"What do you think of it?"
"Impostor! fakir!" was his sulky reply. "Nothing more."
"If fakirs and impostors are so convincing, dear monsieur, why be
yourself longer? Listen!" she added.
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