"Sergeant," said he huskily, "you are of the Sixth?"
"Even so, my burgess," replied the other, returning to the middle of the room.
"Do you know one Gaspard Lefevre?"
"Gaspard Lefevre? Parbleu! that do I. I taught him to shoulder arms; a brave soldier, i' faith, and good on the march. If we had a hundred thousand of his stamp—"
"Then he is alive and well?"
"He is, my citizen—at least he was a week ago, when I left the regiment at Fredericsthal with this train of wounded; since then, you understand, there has been warm work, and one can answer for nothing—one might get his billet at any moment. But a week ago, at Fredericsthal, Gaspard Lefevre still answered roll-call."
Jean Claude breathed.
"But, sergeant, can you tell me why he has not written home these two months back?"
The old soldier smiled and winked his little eyes.
"Do you think, my friend, that a man has nothing to do on the march but write?"