Hitherto I had lived an almost isolated life. My staff duties had so separated me from my brother officers that I only knew them by name; while the other aides-de-camp of the general were men much older than myself, and with none of them had I formed any intimacy whatever. It was not without a sense of this loneliness that I now thought over my promotion. The absence of those who sympathize with our moments of joy and sorrow reduces our enjoyment to a narrow limit indeed. The only one of all I knew who would really have felt happy in my advancement was poor Pioche. He was beyond every thought of pleasure or grief. Thus reflecting, I turned towards my quarters at Brunn. It was evening: the watchfires were lighted, and round them sat groups of soldiers at their supper, chatting away pleasantly, and recounting the events of the battle. Many had been slightly wounded, and by their bandaged foreheads and disabled arms claimed a marked pre-eminence above the rest. A straw bivouac, with its great blazing fire in front, would denote some officer's quarters; and here were generally some eight or ten assembled, while the savory odor of some smoking dish, and the merry laughter, proclaimed that feasting was not excluded from the life of a campaign. As I passed one of these I heard the tones of a voice which, well known, had somehow not been heard by me for many a day before. Who could it be? I listened, but in vain. I asked myself whose was it. I dismounted, and leading my horse by the bridle, passed before the hut. The strong light of the blazing wood lit up the interior, and showed me a party of about a dozen officers, seated and lying on a heap of straw, occupied in discussing a supper, which, however wanting in all the elegancies of table equipment, even where I stood had a most appetizing odor. Various drinking vessels, some of them silver, passed from hand to hand rapidly; and the clinking of cups proclaimed that, although of different regiments,--as I saw they were,--a kindly feeling united them. “Well, François,” said the same voice, whose accents were so familiar to me without my being able to say why,--“well, Francois, you have not told us how it happened.” “Easily enough,” said another; “he broke my blade in his back, and gave point afterwards and ran me through the chest.” It was the maître d'armes of the Fourth, my old antagonist, who said this, and I drew near to hear the remainder. “You could not call the thing unfair,” continued he; “but, after all, no one ever heard of such a _passe_.” “I could have told you of it, though,” rejoined the other; “for I remember once, in the fencing school at the Polytechnique, I saw him catch his antagonist's blade in his sleeve, and when he had it secure, snap it across, and then thrust home with his own. _Parbleu!_ he lost a coat by it; and I believe, at the time, poor fellow, he could ill spare it.”