ries, she
saluted them in true military fashion. I was not long to remain in
ignorance of her vocation nor her name; for scarcely did she pass a
group without stopping to dispense a wonderful cordial that she carried;
and then I heard the familiar title of "La Mere Madou," uttered in every
form of panegyric.

She was a short, stoutly-built figure, somewhat past the middle of life,
but without any impairment of activity in her movements. A pleasing
countenance, with good teeth and black eyes, a merry voice, and a ready
tongue, were qualities more than sufficient to make her a favorite with
the soldiers, whom I found she had followed to more than one battle
field.

"Peste!" cried an old grenadier, as he spat out the liquor on the
ground. "This is one of those sweet things they make in Holland; it
smacks of treacle and bad lemons."

"Ah, Grognard!" said she, laughing, "thou art more vised to corn-brandy,
with a clove of garlic in't, than to good curacoa."

"What, curacoa! Mere Madou, hast got curacoa there?" cried a
gray-whiskered captain, as he turned on his saddle at the word.

"Yes, mon capitaine, and such as no burgomaster ever drank better;" and
she filled out a little glass, and presented it gracefully to him.

"Encore, ma bonne Mere," said he, as he wiped his thick mustache; "that
liquor is another reason for extending the blessings of liberty to the
brave Dutch."

"Didn't I tell you so?" said she, refilling the glass: "but, holloa,
there goes Gregoire at full speed. Ah, scoundrels that ye are, I see
what ye've done." And so was it: some of the wild, young voltigeur
fellows had fastened a lighted furze-bush to the beast's tail, and had
set him, at a gallop, through the very middle of the encampment,
upsetting tents, scattering cooking-pans, and tumbling the groups, as
they sat, in every direction.

The confusion was tremendous; for the picketed horses jumped about, and
some, breaking loose, galloped here and there, while others set off with
half-unpacked wagons, scattering their loading as they went.

It was only when the blazing furze had dropped off, that the cause of
the whole mischance would suffer himself to be captured, and led quietly
back to his mistress. Half crying with joy, and still wild with anger,
she kissed the beast, and abused her tormentors by turns.

"Cannoniers that ye are," she cried, "ma foi! you'll have little face
for the fire when the day comes that ye should face it! Pauvre Greg