"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?"