"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?"
"Severe! I believe you! All may thank their lucky stars who have not left their bones to bleach there. Everything was against us. Sickness, traitors, the peasants, the shopkeepers, our Allies—in short, everything. Of our company, which left Phalsbourg in full marching order on the 21st of last January, there have returned only thirty-two men. I think Gaspard Lefévre is the only one of the conscripts left. Poor fellows! they fought well; but they were not used to starving, and they melted away like butter on a stove."
So saying, the old soldier approached the counter, and tossed off his brandy at a single draught.
"Your health, friend. Are you, by chance, the father of Gaspard?"
"No; I am a relation."
"Well, you have reason to be proud of him. What a fine young fellow for twenty! Yes, in spite of all, he has kept his post while others gave in by dozens."
"But still," pursued Hullin, after a moment's silence, "I'm at a loss to see what there was in this last campaign so different to all others; for we also had sicknesses—traitors to encounter."