Milliard, the postman of the company, arrives with two bags full of letters. Everybody rushes up to him. These are the first letters that have reached us since we left Humes. Milliard calls out the names. All round him are the chief corporals of the squadron who answer "Present!" for the men, and often, alas! "Dead!" "Wounded!" or "Missing!"
Regarding the letters, a brilliant idea has at last entered Roberty's brain. He says: "If each company's letters are called out before the men of the company, instead of shouting them before an indiscriminate mass or before nobody at all, the letters themselves and those for whom they are destined would have a better chance of being brought together." The commander has sanctioned a trial of the system. Sergeant Milliard, of the 24th, searches in the bags. Knowing us well by name, he finds our letters. Wonderful! Some of the men burst into tears; others slip away, their trembling hands grasping the precious missives on which the familiar handwriting is seen.
Such excess of happiness emboldens one, and Milliard is asked, though in somewhat hesitating accents—
"Suppose I entrust you with a letter, what will become of it?"
"I will take it to the postman's van for you."
The deuce!
"And you think it will reach its destination?"
"Certainly; I can promise you that."
Thereupon the letter is timidly placed in Milliard's hands.
About five in the afternoon, Charensac assures us with a knowing air—