"Oh! such an idea would never enter my head, and yet——"
"You would not be sorry to know that I had done nothing wrong? I cannot blame you, Papa Jean-Claude: you are right. He who is missing at the roll-call when the 'kaiserlichs' are in France, deserves to be shot. Be composed, here is my leave."
Hullin, who possessed no false delicacy, read,—"Leave for twenty-four hours to the grenadier Gaspard Lefèvre, of the 2d of the 1st. This day, 3d January, 1814.—GEMEAU, Head of Battalion."
"Good, good," exclaimed he. "Put that carefully in thy knapsack, thou mightest lose it."
All his good-humor had returned:—"Do you see, my children, I know what love is? There is both good and bad in it: but it is particularly bad for young soldiers who come too close to their village after a campaign. They are capable of forgetting themselves and of not returning unless in company of two or three gendarmes. I have seen it. But come, since everything is in order, let us drink a glass of 'rikevir.' What say you, Catherine? The men of the Sarre may arrive at any moment, and we have not an instant to lose?"
"You are right, Jean-Claude," replied the old farm-mistress sadly. "Annette, go down and bring three bottles from the small cellar."
The servant obeyed quickly.
"But this leave, Gaspard," continued Catherine—"how long has it lasted?"
"I received it yesterday, at eight in the evening, at Vasselonne, my mother. The regiment is retreating on Lorraine; I must rejoin it this evening at Phalsbourg."
"It is well; thou hast still seven hours; thou wilt not need more than six to reach there, although there is much snow on the Foxthal."