At last, at about four o'clock, the 106th halted at Dontrien, a village on the banks of the Suippe. The little river meanders between tufts of foliage, and the old church stands in a graveyard, which a gigantic horse-chestnut tree fairly covers with its spreading shade. The regiment pitched its tents in a sloping meadow on the left bank of the stream. According to the officers, the four army corps would bivouac that night along the line of the Suippe from Auberive to Heutrégiville, by way of Dontrien, Béthiniville and Pont-Faverger, with a front extending along a distance of nearly five leagues. Gaude immediately sounded the call to rations, and Jean, the great purveyor in ordinary, ever on the alert, had to hurry off, taking Lapoulle with him. They returned in half an hour's time with a rib of beef and a faggot of wood. Three oxen of the drove that followed in the rear of the army had already been slaughtered and cut up. Lapoulle then had to go off again to fetch the bread which had been baking since noon in the village ovens. Excepting wine and tobacco, which were never once distributed during the whole period, there was on this occasion an abundance of everything. Jean, on his return, had found Chouteau engaged in pitching the tent with Pache's assistance. He looked at them for a moment like an experienced old soldier who considered they were making a mess of the job, and finally remarked: 'Well, that'll do since it's going to be fine to-night. But if it were windy we should all be blown into the river. I shall have to teach you how to pitch the tent properly.' Then he thought of sending Maurice to fetch some water in the large can, but he saw that the young fellow had seated himself on the grass, and had taken off his shoe to examine his right foot. 'Hallo! what's up?' asked Jean. 'The counter has rubbed the skin off my heel. My other shoes were going to pieces, and at Rheims, stupidly enough, I chose these because they were just my size. I ought to have taken a larger pair.' Kneeling down, Jean took hold of Maurice's foot and turned it round as gently as though he were dealing with a child. 'It isn't a laughing matter,' he said, shaking his head; 'you must be careful. A soldier who can't depend on his feet may just as well be chucked on a rubbish heap. My captain was always saying, out in Italy, that battles are won with men's legs.'