“Perhaps,” M. Perrin said, “you would be wise to inquire among the lightly wounded.”
“Oh! well, if you think so,” said M. Poisson, rather indifferently.
And we proceeded to the huts of the “quick removals.” We went in, and asked the usual question. No one replied. On going out, M. Poisson repeated:
“Cuvelier isn’t here?”
Then suddenly we heard some one shouting:
“Yes; Cuvelier, present!”
And a tall, curly-headed man jumps off a bed, raising a hand that was very lightly bandaged....
Things take a tragic turn. M. Poisson turns dark purple, like a man stricken with apoplexy. He spits two or three times. He smacks his thighs, and says in a choking voice:
“God! he must be alive then!”
“I am Cuvelier,” the soldier remarks.