On that morning a queer conceit flashed across his mind, such a conceit as only a Parisian _gamin_ contemplating the mystification of a greenhorn is capable of entertaining: “Look alive there, will you! Come, hand me the chicken.” “The chicken! what chicken, where?” “Why, there on the ground at your feet, stupid; the chicken that I promised you last night, and that the corporal has just brought in.” He pointed to a large, white, round stone, and Lapoulle, speechless with wonder, finally picked it up and turned it about between his fingers. “A thousand thunders! Will you wash the chicken! More yet; wash its claws, wash its neck! Don’t be afraid of the water, lazybones!” And for no reason at all except the joke of it, because the prospect of the soup made him gay and sportive, he tossed the stone along with the meat into the kettle filled with water. “That’s what will give the bouillon a flavor! Ah, you didn’t know that, _sacrée andouille_! You shall have the pope’s nose; you’ll see how tender it is.” The squad roared with laughter at sight of Lapoulle’s face, who swallowed everything and was licking his chops in anticipation of the feast. That funny dog, Loubet, he was the man to cure one of the dumps if anybody could! And when the fire began to crackle in the sunlight, and the kettle commenced to hum and bubble, they ranged themselves reverently about it in a circle with an expression of cheerful satisfaction on their faces, watching the meat as it danced up and down and sniffing the appetizing odor that it exhaled. They were as hungry as a pack of wolves, and the prospect of a square meal made them forgetful of all beside. They had had to take a thrashing, but that was no reason why a man should not fill his stomach. Fires were blazing and pots were boiling from one end of the camp to the other, and amid the silvery peals of the bells that floated from Mülhausen steeples mirth and jollity reigned supreme. But just as the clocks were on the point of striking nine a commotion arose and spread among the men; officers came running up, and Lieutenant Rochas, to whom Captain Beaudoin had come and communicated an order, passed along in front of the tents of his platoon and gave the command: “Pack everything! Get yourselves ready to march!” “But the soup?” “You will have to wait for your soup until some other day; we are to march at once.”