We were obliged to open it.
An infantry officer, wet through by the rain, with his great blue cloak thrown over his epaulettes, followed by an old sergeant with a lantern, came in.
We recognized them as Frenchmen, and the officer asked brusquely, "Where do you come from?"
"From Mont-St.-Jean, lieutenant," I replied.
"From what regiment are you?"
"From the Sixth light infantry," I answered.
He looked at the number on my shako, which was lying on the table, and at the same time I saw that his number was also the Sixth.
"From which battalion are you?" said he, knitting his brows.
"The third."
Buche, pale as ashes, did not say a word. The officer looked at our guns and knapsacks and cartridge-boxes behind the bed in the corner.