"Lapoulle!" shouted the sergeant, calling the name a second time with
increased emphasis.

There was no response, and Jean rushed off to the place where Private
Lapoulle, egged on by his comrades, was industriously trying to fan
the refractory fuel into a blaze; flat on his stomach before the pile
of blackening, spluttering wood, his face resembling an underdone
beefsteak, the warrior was now propelling dense clouds of smoke
horizontally along the surface of the plain.

"Thunder and ouns! Quit that, will you!" yelled Jean, "and come and
answer to your name."

Lapoulle rose to his feet with a dazed look on his face, then appeared
to grasp the situation and yelled: "Present!" in such stentorian tones
that Loubet, pretending to be upset by the concussion, sank to the
ground in a sitting posture. Pache had finished mending his trousers
and answered in a voice that was barely audible, that sounded more
like the mumbling of a prayer. Chouteau, not even troubling himself to
rise, grunted his answer unconcernedly and turned over on his side.

Lieutenant Rochas, the officer of the guard, was meantime standing a
few steps away, motionlessly awaiting the conclusion of the ceremony.
When Sergeant Sapin had finished calling the roll and came up to
report that all were present, the officer, with a glance at Weiss, who
was still conversing with Maurice, growled from under his mustache:

"Yes, and one over. What is that civilian doing here?"

"He has the colonel's pass, Lieutenant," explained Jean, who had heard