Outside there is torrid sunshine, riddled with flies. The little
beasts, quite scarce but a few days ago, multiply everywhere the
murmur of their minute and innumerable engines. I go out in the
company of Lamuse; we are going for a saunter. One can be at peace
today--it is complete rest, by reason of the overnight march. We
might sleep, but it suits us much better to use the rest for an
extensive promenade. To-morrow, the exercise and fatigues will get
us again. There are some, less lucky than we, who are already caught
in the cogwheels of fatigue. To Lamuse, who invites him to come and
stroll with us, Corvisart replies, screwing up the little round nose
that is laid flatly on his oblong face like a cork, "Can't--I'm on
manure!" He points to the shovel and broom by whose help he is
performing his task of scavenger and night-soil man.

We walk languidly. The afternoon lies heavy on the drowsy land and
on stomachs richly provided and embellished with food. The remarks
we exchange are infrequent.

Over there, we hear noises. Barque has fallen a victim to a
menagerie of housewives; and the scene is pointed by a pale little
girl, her hair tied behind in a pencil of tow and her mouth
embroidered with fever spots, and by women who are busy with some
unsavory job of washing in the meager shade before their doors.

Six men go by, led by a quartermaster corporal. They carry heaps of
new greatcoats and bundles of boots. Lamuse regards his bloated and
horny feet--"I must have some new sheds, and no mistake; a bit more
and you'll see my splay-feet through these ones. Can't go marching
on the skin of my tongs, eh?"