In spite of his little puckered-up eyes and hatchet-shaped nose, the countenance of the old soldier beamed with good humour and joviality. His whole figure was martial, his face bronzed by exposure to the open air, frank and open, though tinged with an expression of sly humour; his tall shako, large great-coat of grayish-blue, the belt, the very epaulette, all seemed part and parcel of himself. He could not have been sketched otherwise. He kept striding up and down the room, rubbing his hands, while Wittman poured him out a dram of brandy. Hullin, seated near the window, had instantly noticed the number of his regiment--6th Light Infantry. Gaspard, son of the farm-mistress Lefévre, served in this regiment. Jean-Claude could now hear news of Louise's betrothed; but just as he was about to speak, his heart nearly failed him: "If Gaspard were dead; if he had perished, like so many others!" The worthy sabot-maker felt as if he were choking. He was silent. "Better," thought he, "to know nothing at all." And yet, in a few minutes' time, he was unable to restrain himself. "Sergeant," said he, in a hoarse voice, "you belong to the 6th Light?" "Yes, neighbour," said the other, returning to the middle of the room. "Do you happen to know a young man named Gaspard Lefévre?" "Gaspard Lefévre, of the 2nd division of the 1st--do I know him? Why, I taught him his drill: a brave soldier, by all that's blue! hard as iron. If we had about a hundred thousand of his mettle----" "Then he is alive?--he is well?" "Yes, friend. That is to say, he was on Dec. 15th, when I quitted the regiment at Fredericsthal, to escort this convoy of wounded; but in such times as these, you see, we can't answer for anything; from one moment to the next we are each of us liable to be sent to our account. But a week ago, at Fredericsthal, Gaspard Lefévre answered to the muster-roll." Jean-Claude drew a long breath. "But, sergeant," said he, "do me the favour to tell me why Gaspard has not written home for two months?" The old soldier smiled, and winked his little twinkling eyes. "What the deuce, my good friend," said he; "do you think people have nothing better to do in war time than write letters?" "No; for I served myself in the campaigns of Sambre-et-Meuse, Italy, and Egypt; but that did not prevent my writing home to let them know how I was getting on." "One moment, comrade," interrupted the sergeant; "I, too, have served in Italy and Egypt; but the campaign we have just ended is not like either of those; it's quite another sort of thing." "It has been very severe, then?"