"Done!" said Muroc. "To the devil with the charcoal! I'll go wash my
face."

"There's my hand on it," added Duclosse; "but that rascal Petrie will get
my trade, and I'd rather be strung by the Orleans than that."

"Till I've no more wind in my bellows!" responded Lajeunesse, raising
his hand, "if he keeps faith with my Madelinette."

"On the honour of a soldier," said Lagroin, and he crossed himself.

"God save us all!" said Parpon. Obeying a motion of the dwarf's hand,
Lagroin drew from his pocket a flask of cognac, with four little tin cups
fitting into each other. Handing one to each, he poured them brimming
full. Then, filling his own, he spilled a little in the steely dust of
the smithy floor. All did the same, though they knew not why.

"What's that for?" asked the mealman.

"To show the Little Corporal, dear Corporal Violet, and my comrades of
the Old Guard, that we don't forget them," cried Lagroin.

He drank slowly, holding his head far back, and as he brought it straight
again, he swung on his heel, for two tears were racing down his cheeks.

The mealman wiped his eyes in sympathy; the charcoalman shook his head at
the blacksmith, as though to say, "Poor devil!" and Parpon straightway
filled their glasses again. Madelinette took the flask to the old
sergeant. He looked at her kindly, and patted her shoulder. Then he