"It is Duchêne," said our surgeon, turning around. "How many wounded?"
"Seventeen to eighteen thousand."
"Aha! Well, how goes it this morning?"
"Passably—I am looking for a tavern."
Our surgeon left the shed to chat with his comrade; they conversed quietly, while the assistants sat down to drink a cup of wine, and the Russian rolled his eyes despairingly.
"See, Duchêne; you have only to go down the street, opposite that well, do you see?"
"Very well indeed."
"Just opposite you will see the canteen."
"Very good; thank you; I am off."
He started, and our surgeon called after him: