"At the very least, during the last two months, to say nothing of those who are left in Alsace and the other side of the Rhine; for, you see, they couldn't find carts enough for all, and then some of them weren't worth the trouble of carrying away."
"Oh! yes, I see! but why are these unfortunate men there? Why do they not take them to the hospital?"
"The hospital! what is the good of a hospital—of ten hospitals—for fifty thousand wounded? All the hospitals, from Mayence and Coblentz to Phalsbourg, are crowded. And besides, that terrible malady, the typhus fever, do you see, Hullin, kills more than the cannon-ball. All the villages of the plain for twenty leagues round are infected; they are dying off everywhere like flies. Luckily, the town has been in a state of siege for the last three days, the gates are going to be shut, no person will be allowed to enter. Why, I myself have lost my uncle Christian and my aunt Lisbeth—both as well and hearty as you and I are at this present moment, Master Jean-Claude. And now the cold has come at last. There was a white frost last night."
"And were the wounded left out in the open air all night?"
"No, they arrived from Saverne this morning; in an hour or two, just time to give the horses a little rest, they will set out for Sarrebourg."
At this moment, the old sergeant, who had been settling affairs with the wounded in the carts, entered, rubbing his hands.
"Ha! ha!" said he, "it's sharp weather, Master Wittman; and you have done wisely to light the fire in the stove. A little sup of brandy, just to keep the fog out. Hum! hum!"
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.