The Country Doctor | Page 4

of France!
The traveler was a tall man, dressed from head to foot in a suit of blue
cloth, which must have been brushed just as carefully every morning as
the glossy coat of his horse. He held himself firm and erect in the
saddle like an old cavalry officer. Even if his black cravat and doeskin
gloves, the pistols that filled his holsters, and the valise securely
fastened to the crupper behind him had not combined to mark him out
as a soldier, the air of unconcern that sat on his face, his regular
features (scarred though they were with the smallpox), his determined
manner, self-reliant expression, and the way he held his head, all
revealed the habits acquired through military discipline, of which a

soldier can never quite divest himself, even after he has retired from
service into private life.
Any other traveler would have been filled with wonder at the loveliness
of this Alpine region, which grows so bright and smiling as it becomes
merged in the great valley systems of southern France; but the officer,
who no doubt had previously traversed a country across which the
French armies had been drafted in the course of Napoleon's wars,
enjoyed the view before him without appearing to be surprised by the
many changes that swept across it. It would seem that Napoleon has
extinguished in his soldiers the sensation of wonder; for an impassive
face is a sure token by which you may know the men who served
erewhile under the short-lived yet deathless Eagles of the great
Emperor. The traveler was, in fact, one of those soldiers (seldom met
with nowadays) whom shot and shell have respected, although they
have borne their part on every battlefield where Napoleon commanded.
There had been nothing unusual in his life. He had fought valiantly in
the ranks as a simple and loyal soldier, doing his duty as faithfully by
night as by day, and whether in or out of his officer's sight. He had
never dealt a sabre stroke in vain, and was incapable of giving one too
many. If he wore at his buttonhole the rosette of an officer of the
Legion of Honor, it was because the unanimous voice of his regiment
had singled him out as the man who best deserved to receive it after the
battle of Borodino.
He belonged to that small minority of undemonstrative retiring natures,
who are always at peace with themselves, and who are conscious of a
feeling of humiliation at the mere thought of making a request, no
matter what its nature may be. So promotion had come to him tardily,
and by virtue of the slowly-working laws of seniority. He had been
made a sub-lieutenant in 1802, but it was not until 1829 that he became
a major, in spite of the grayness of his moustaches. His life had been so
blameless that no man in the army, not even the general himself, could
approach him without an involuntary feeling of respect. It is possible
that he was not forgiven for this indisputable superiority by those who
ranked above him; but, on the other hand, there was not one of his men

that did not feel for him something of the affection of children for a
good mother. For them he knew how to be at once indulgent and severe.
He himself had also once served in the ranks, and knew the sorry joys
and gaily-endured hardships of the soldier's lot. He knew the errors that
may be passed over and the faults that must be punished in his
men--"his children," as he always called them--and when on campaign
he readily gave them leave to forage for provision for man and horse
among the wealthier classes.
His own personal history lay buried beneath the deepest reserve. Like
almost every military man in Europe, he had only seen the world
through cannon smoke, or in the brief intervals of peace that occurred
so seldom during the Emperor's continual wars with the rest of Europe.
Had he or had he not thought of marriage? The question remained
unsettled. Although no one doubted that Commandant Genestas had
made conquests during his sojourn in town after town and country after
country where he had taken part in the festivities given and received by
the officers, yet no one knew this for a certainty. There was no prudery
about him; he would not decline to join a pleasure party; he in no way
offended against military standards; but when questioned as to his
affairs of the heart, he either kept silence or answered with a jest. To
the words, "How are you, commandant?" addressed to him by an
officer over the wine, his reply was, "Pass the bottle, gentlemen."
M. Pierre Joseph Genestas was an unostentatious kind