had never undergone
such fatigue. With our billet for lodging we had the right to a corner
of the fire, but our hosts also gave us a place at the table. We had
nearly always buttermilk and potatoes, and often fresh cheese or a dish
of sauerkraut. The children came to look at us, and the old women
asked us from what place we came, and what our business was before we
left home. The young girls looked sorrowfully at us, thinking of their
sweethearts, who had gone five, six, or seven months before. Then they
would take us to their son's bed. With what pleasure I stretched out
my tired limbs! How I wished to sleep all our twelve hours' halt! But
early in the morning, at daybreak, the rattling of the drums awoke me.
I gazed at the brown rafters of the ceiling, the window-panes covered
with frost, and asked myself where I was. Then my heart would grow
cold, as I thought that I was at Bitche--at Kaiserslautern--that I was
a conscript; and I had to dress fast as I could, catch up my knapsack,
and answer the roll-call.

"A good journey to you!" said the hostess, awakened so early in the
morning.

"Thank you," replied the conscript.

And we marched on.

Yes! a good journey to you! They will not see you again, poor wretch!
How many others have followed the same road!

I will never forget how at Kaiserslautern, the second day of our march,
having unstrapped my knapsack to take out a white shirt, I discovered,
beneath, a little pocket, and opening it I found fifty-four francs in
six-livre pieces. On the paper wrapped around them were these words,
written by Monsieur Goulden:

"While you are at the wars, be always good and honest. Think of your
friends and of those for whom you would be willing to sacrifice your
life, and treat the enemy with humanity that they may so treat our
soldiers. May Heaven guide you, and protect you in your dangers! You
will find some money enclosed; for it is a good thing, when far from
home and all who love you, to have a little of it. Write to us as
often as you can. I embrace you, my child, and press you to my heart."

As I read this, the tears forced themselves to my eyes, and I thought,
"Thou are not wholly abandoned, Joseph: fond hearts are yearning toward
you. Never forget their kind counsels."

At last, on the fifth day, about ten o'clock in the evening, we entered
Mayence. As long as I live I will remember it. It was terribly cold.
We had begun our march at early dawn,