e. That is the time when he is
likely to have adventures, and it is often to that time that I shall
turn in the stories which I may have for you. So it will be tonight when
I tell you of my visit to the Castle of Gloom; of the strange mission of
Sub-Lieutenant Duroc, and of the horrible affair of the man who was once
known as Jean Carabin, and afterwards as the Baron Straubenthal.
You must know, then, that in the February of 1807, immediately after the
taking of Danzig, Major Legendre and I were commissioned to bring four
hundred remounts from Prussia into Eastern Poland.
The hard weather, and especially the great battle at Eylau, had killed
so many of the horses that there was some danger of our beautiful Tenth
of Hussars becoming a battalion of light infantry. We knew, therefore,
both the Major and I, that we should be very welcome at the front. We
did not advance very rapidly, however, for the snow was deep, the roads
detestable, and we had but twenty returning invalids to assist us.
Besides, it is impossible, when you have a daily change of forage, and
sometimes none at all, to move horses faster than a walk. I am aware
that in the story-books the cavalry whirls past at the maddest of
gallops; but for my own part, after twelve campaigns, I should be very
satisfied to know that my brigade could always walk upon the march and
trot in the presence of the enemy. This I say of the hussars and
chasseurs, mark you, so that it is far more the case with cuirassiers or
dragoons.
For myself I am fond of horses, and to have four hundred of them, of
every age and shade and character, all under my own hands, was a very
great pleasure to me. They were from Pomerania for the most part, though
some were from Normandy and some from Alsace, and it amused us to notice
that they differed in character as much as the people of those
provinces. We observed also, what I have often proved since, that the
nature of a horse can be told by his colour, from the coquettish light
bay, full of fancies and nerves, to the hardy chestnut, and from the
docile roan to the pig-headed rusty-black. All this has nothing in the
world to do with my story, but how is an officer of cavalry to get on
with his tale when he finds four hundred horses waiting for him at the
outset? It is my habit, you see, to talk of that which interests myself
and so I hope that I may interest you.
We crossed the Vistula opposite Marienwerder, and had got as far as
Riesenbe
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