"Yes, I understand. But why are those unfortunates there? Why are they not in the hospital?"
"The hospital! Where are there hospitals enough for them—for fifty thousand wounded? Every one, from Mayence and Coblentz to Phalsbourg, is crowded; and, moreover, that terrible sickness, typhus, kills more than the enemy's bullets. All the villages in the plain, for twenty leagues around, are infected, and men die like flies. Happily, the city has been for three days in a state of siege, and they are about to close the gates, and allow no one to enter. I have lost my uncle Christian and my aunt Lisbeth, as hale, hearty people as you or I, Jean-Claude. The cold has come, too; there was a white frost last night."
"And the wounded were in the street all night?"
"No; they came from Saverne this morning, and in an hour or two—as soon as the horses are rested—they will depart for Sarrebourg."
At this instant, the old sergeant, who had established order in the wagon, entered, rubbing his hands.
"Ha, ha!" he said, "it is becoming cooler, Father Wittmann. You did well to light the fire in the stove. A little glass of cognac would not be amiss to take off the chill."
His little, half-closed eyes, hooked nose, separating a pair of wrinkled cheeks, and chin, from which a red tuft of beard hung, all gave the old soldier's face an expression of good humor and jollity. It was a true military countenance—hale, bronzed by exposure, full of bluff frankness as well as of roguish shrewdness—and his tall shako and gray-blue overcoat, shoulder-belt, and epaulettes seemed part of himself. He marched up and down the room, still rubbing his hands, while Wittmann filled him a little glass of brandy. Hullin, seated near the window, had, in the first place, remarked the number of his regiment—the sixth of the line. Gaspard, the son of Catherine Lefevre, was in the same. Jean-Claude would, then, have tidings of Louise's betrothed; but when he attempted to speak, his heart beat painfully. If Gaspard were dead! If he had perished like so many others!
The old sabot-maker felt strangled. He was silent. "Better to know nothing," he thought.
Nevertheless, in a few moments he again tried to speak.