other people's lives, was again wearing the _capote_ of the infantry
man. But what is a man to do, when he has neither trade nor calling,
neither wife, house, nor home, and his heart is heavy with mingled
rage and sorrow? As well go and have a shot at the enemy, if they come
where they are not wanted. And he remembered his old battle cry: Ah!
_bon sang_! if he had no longer heart for honest toil, he would go and
defend her, his country, the old land of France!

When Jean was on his legs he cast a look about the camp, where the
summons of the drums and bugles, taken up by one command after
another, produced a momentary bustle, the conclusion of the business
of the day. Some men were running to take their places in the ranks,
while others, already half asleep, arose and stretched their stiff
limbs with an air of exasperated weariness. He stood waiting patiently
for roll-call, with that cheerful imperturbability and determination
to make the best of everything that made him the good soldier that he
was. His comrades were accustomed to say of him that if he had only
had education he would have made his mark. He could just barely read
and write, and his aspirations did not rise even so high as to a
sergeantcy. Once a peasant, always a peasant.

But he found something to interest him in the fire of green wood that
was still smoldering and sending up dense volumes of smoke, and he
stepped up to speak to the two men who were busying themselves over
it, Loubet and Lapoulle, both members of his squad.

"Quit that! You are stifling the whole camp."

Loubet, a lean, active fellow and something of a wag, replied: