A man leading a mule knocked up against him; he also held a feeble lantern; his dress and the chests the mule carried showed him to be a surgeon.
“This is a pitiful sight, Monsieur,” he said. “Most of the wagons were lost in that storm yesterday, and how am I to work with nothing?” He lifted his shoulders and repeated, “with nothing?”
“Is there no food?” asked the Marquis.
“In Pürgitz, yes—but who is to distribute it on such a night?”
“We are like to have worse nights. Is M. de Belleisle in Pürgitz?”
“And some regiments. They are in luck, Monsieur.”
M. de Vauvenargues stood thoughtfully, and the surgeon passed on. Two officers rode up on horseback, attended by a soldier with a torch; the Marquis accosted them.
“Messieurs, I am Vauvenargues of the régiment du roi,” he said. “We are encamped up the ravine, and there is no provision for men or horses——”
By the light of the torch he recognized in the foremost officer M. de Broglie, whose bright hair gleamed above a pale face.
“Maréchal,” he added, “I do not know how many will be alive by the morning.”