Listen to the words exchanged between them. On this side, in a small group of French and Russians, a young officer is examining a cartridge-box. Although he speaks bad French, he can make himself understood. “And why that--that bird?” he asks. “Because it is the cartridge-box of a regiment of the guard, sir. It is ornamented with the imperial eagle.” “And you--you belong to the guard?” “Pardon, sir, to the sixth regiment of the line.” “And this--where was this bought?” The officer points to the little wooden mouth-piece which holds the Frenchman’s cigarette. “At Balaklava, sir. It is only palm-wood.” “Pretty,” replies the officer, obliged to make use of the few words he knew, and which, _nolens volens,_ intruded themselves into the conversation. “You will oblige me if you will keep that as a souvenir of this meeting.” The Frenchman throws away his cigarette, blows in the mouth-piece, and politely presents it to the officer with a salute. The latter gives him his in exchange. All the French and Russian by-standers smile and seem delighted. Here comes a shrewd-looking infantryman in a red shirt, his overcoat thrown over his shoulders. His face is full of good spirits and curiosity. Accompanied by two comrades, their hands behind their backs, he approaches and asks a Frenchman for a light. The latter blows into his pipe, shakes it, and offers a light to the Russian. “_Tabac bonn!_” says the soldier in the red shirt, and the by-standers smile. “Yes, good tobacco--Turkish tobacco!” answers the Frenchman; “and with you Russian tobacco good?” “_Rouss bonn!_” repeats the soldier in the red shirt, and this time the spectators burst out laughing. “_Français pas bonn, bonn jour, mousiou!_” continues the soldier, making a show of all he knew in French, laughing, and tapping on the stomach of the man who was talking with him. The Frenchmen also laugh. “They are not pretty, these Russian B----,” said a Zouave. “What are they laughing at?” asks another, with an Italian accent. “_Le caftan bonn!_” the bold soldier begins again, examining the embroidered uniform of the Zouave. “To your places, _sacré nom_!” shouts a French corporal at this instant. The soldiers sulkily disperse. Nevertheless, our young cavalry lieutenant is strutting in a group of the enemy’s officers. “I knew Count Sasonoff well,” says one of the latter. “He is one of the true Russian counts, such as we like.” “I also knew a Sasonoff,” replies the cavalry officer, “but he wasn’t a count, as far as I know. He is a small, dark man about your age.” “That’s it, sir--that’s he. Oh, how I would like to see the dear count! If you see him, give him my regards. Captain Latour,” he adds, bowing. “What a miserable business we are carrying on! It was hot last night, wasn’t it?” continues the cavalry officer, anxious to keep up the conversation, and pointing to the corpses.