The newcomer was a simple farm-hand of Remilly, whom Maurice had known when a child, at the time when he went to spend his holidays at uncle Fouchard's. Having been taken at the conscription, Prosper had already spent three years in Algeria when the war broke out, and, with his long thin face and his supple sturdy limbs, with which he was wonderfully adroit, he looked to great advantage in his sky-blue jacket, his full red trousers with blue stripes, and his ample red woollen sash. 'What! Monsieur Maurice,' he said. 'Here's an unexpected meeting!'
He did not hurry to join his friend, however, but forthwith took the steaming horses to the stable, eyeing his own mount with quite a paternal air. It was love of horseflesh, dating from childhood, from the time when he had taken the teams to the fields, that had induced him to enter the cavalry service. 'We've just come from Monthois, ten leagues at a stretch,' he said to Maurice, when he returned, 'and Zephyr needs a feed.' Zephyr was his horse. For his own part he refused to eat anything, and would only accept some coffee. He had to wait for his officer, who, on his side, had to wait for the Emperor. They might be five minutes there, or two hours, there was no telling, so his officer had told him to bait the horses. Then as Maurice, whose curiosity was roused, questioned him as to why the officer wanted to see the Emperor, he replied; 'I don't know--some commission of course--some papers to hand in.'
Rochas was eyeing Prosper with a softened glance, the sight of the chasseur uniform having revived his own recollections of Algeria. 'And where were you, out there, my lad?' he asked.
Medeah! Thereupon they began talking together like comrades, all regulations notwithstanding. Prosper had grown accustomed to that Algerian life of constant alerts, a life spent on horseback, the men setting out to fight as they might have set out on some hunting excursion, some great _battue_ of Arabs. There was but one platter for each 'tribe'[18] of six men; and each 'tribe' was a family, one member of which did the cooking, whilst another did the washing, and the others pitched the tents, groomed the horses, and furbished the arms. They rode on through the morning and afternoon, laden with weighty burdens, in a heat as heavy as lead. Then in the evening they lighted large fires to drive away the mosquitoes, and gathered around to sing songs of France. During the clear, star-spangled nights it was often necessary to get up to quiet the horses, who, incommoded by the warm breeze, would suddenly begin to bite one another and tear up their pickets, neighing furiously. Then, too, there was the coffee, a great affair, the delicious coffee which they crushed in a pan and strained through one of their red regulation sashes. But there were also the black days, spent far from all human habitations, face to face with the enemy. Then there were no more camp-fires, no more songs, no more sprees. They suffered fearfully at times from thirst, hunger, and lack of sleep. Yet all the same they were fond of that adventurous life full of unexpected incidents, that skirmishing warfare so well adapted to deeds of personal bravery, and as amusing as the conquest of some island of savages, enlivened by razzias or wholesale pillaging expeditions, and by the petty thefts of the marauders, many of whose cunning exploits had become quite legendary, and made even the generals laugh.