"Ha, ha!" he said, "it is becoming cooler, Father Wittmann. You did well to light the fire in the stove. A little glass of cognac would not be amiss to take off the chill." His little, half-closed eyes, hooked nose, separating a pair of wrinkled cheeks, and chin, from which a red tuft of beard hung, all gave the old soldier's face an expression of good humor and jollity. It was a true military countenance--hale, bronzed by exposure, full of bluff frankness as well as of roguish shrewdness--and his tall shako and gray-blue overcoat, shoulder-belt, and epaulettes seemed part of himself. He marched up and down the room, still rubbing his hands, while Wittmann filled him a little glass of brandy. Hullin, seated near the window, had, in the first place, remarked the number of his regiment--the sixth of the line. Gaspard, the son of Catherine Lefevre, was in the same. Jean-Claude would, then, have tidings of Louise's betrothed; but when he attempted to speak, his heart beat painfully. If Gaspard were dead! If he had perished like so many others! {30} The old sabot-maker felt strangled. He was silent. "Better to know nothing," he thought. Nevertheless, in a few moments he again tried to speak. "Sergeant," said he huskily, "you are of the Sixth?" "Even so, my burgess," replied the other, returning to the middle of the room. "Do you know one Gaspard Lefevre?" "Gaspard Lefevre? Parbleu! that do I. I taught him to shoulder arms; a brave soldier, i' faith, and good on the march. If we had a hundred thousand of his stamp--" "Then he is alive and well?" "He is, my citizen--at least he was a week ago, when I left the regiment at Fredericsthal with this train of wounded; since then, you understand, there has been warm work, and one can answer for nothing--one might get his billet at any moment. But a week ago, at Fredericsthal, Gaspard Lefevre still answered roll-call." Jean Claude breathed. "But, sergeant, can you tell me why he has not written home these two months back?" The old soldier smiled and winked his little eyes. "Do you think, my friend, that a man has nothing to do on the march but write?" "No; I have seen service. I made the campaigns of the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Egypt and of Italy, but I always managed to let my friends at home hear from me." "One moment, comrade," interrupted the sergeant. "I was in Italy and Egypt too, but the campaign just finished was in every respect peculiar." "It was a severe one, no doubt." "Severe! Everything and every one was against us; sickness, traitors, peasants, citizens, our allies--all the world! Of our company, which was full when we left Phalsbourg the twenty-first of January last, only thirty-two men remain. I believe that Gaspard Lefevre is the only conscript left living. The poor conscripts! They fought well, but exposure and hunger did their business." So saying, the old sergeant walked to the counter and emptied his glass at one gulp.