"Go and look after the champagne--Go out and buy some truffles--"

On that morning a queer conceit flashed across his mind, such a
conceit as only a Parisian _gamin_ contemplating the mystification of
a greenhorn is capable of entertaining:

"Look alive there, will you! Come, hand me the chicken."

"The chicken! what chicken, where?"

"Why, there on the ground at your feet, stupid; the chicken that I
promised you last night, and that the corporal has just brought in."

He pointed to a large, white, round stone, and Lapoulle, speechless
with wonder, finally picked it up and turned it about between his
fingers.

"A thousand thunders! Will you wash the chicken! More yet; wash its
claws, wash its neck! Don't be afraid of the water, lazybones!"

And for no reason at all except the joke of it, because the prospect
of the soup made him gay and sportive, he tossed the stone along with
the meat into the kettle filled with water.

"That's what will give the bouillon a flavor! Ah, you didn't know
that, _sacree andouille_! You shall have the pope's nose; you'll see
how tender it is."

The squad roared with laughter at sight of Lapoulle's face, who
swallowed everything and was licking his chops in anticipation of the