thin mists that were slowly creeping upward from the river off yonder
in the distance came the new day, bringing with it mourning and
affliction.



II.

About eight o'clock the sun dispersed the heavy clouds, and the broad,
fertile plain about Mulhausen lay basking in the warm, bright light of
a perfect August Sunday. From the camp, now awake and bustling with
life, could be heard the bells of the neighboring parishes, pealing
merrily in the limpid air. The cheerful Sunday following so close on
ruin and defeat had its own gayety, its sky was as serene as on a
holiday.

Gaude suddenly took his bugle and gave the call that announced the
distribution of rations, whereat Loubet appeared astonished. What was
it? What did it mean? Were they going to give out chickens, as he had
promised Lapoulle the night before? He had been born in the Halles, in
the Rue de la Cossonerie, was the unacknowledged son of a small
huckster, had enlisted "for the money there was in it," as he said,
after having been a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, and was now the
gourmand, the epicure of the company, continually nosing after
something good to eat. But he went off to see what was going on, while
Chouteau, the company artist, house-painter by trade at Belleville,
something of a dandy and a revolutionary republican, exasperated
against the government for having called him back to the colors after
he had served his time, was cruelly chaffing Pache, whom he had
discovered on his knees, behind the tent, preparing to say his