"Last night we went to bed in an émousse."
"All four of you?"
"All four."
"Went to bed?"
"Went to bed."
"Then you must have gone to bed standing." And he turned to the soldiers.
"Comrades, a dead tree, old and hollow, wherein a man can sheathe himself like a sword in a scabbard, is what these savages call an émousse. But what would you have? All are not obliged to be Parisians."
"The idea of sleeping in the hollow of a tree,—and with three children!" exclaimed the vivandière.
"And when the little one bawled, it must have seemed queer to the passers-by, who could see nothing, to hear the tree calling out, 'Papa! mamma!'"
"Fortunately, it is summer-time," said the woman, with a sigh.