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If they had known that, there was more than one of them who would not have slept so well, for men cling to life, and it is a sad thing to think, "to-day I draw my last breath!" During the night the air was heavy, and I wakened every hour in spite of my great fatigue, but my comrades slept on, some talking in their sleep. Buche did not stir.
The Yule log seems to be known only in the French-speaking parts of Switzerland, where it goes by the usual French name of Bûche de Noël. In the Jura mountains of the canton of Bern, while the log is burning on the hearth the people sing a blessing over it as follows: "May the log burn! May all good come in! May the women have children And the sheep lambs!
When we had recovered a little, I said to Buche: "Jean, you must go on before me, so that my wife and Mr. Goulden may not be too much surprised.
Buche received a blow from a sabre which cut his shako down to the visor, but with one thrust with his bayonet he killed his antagonist. Three of them still remained. My musket was loaded. Buche planted himself with his back against a nut-tree, and every time the Prussians, who had fallen back, approached us, I took aim. Neither of them wanted to be the first to die!
But we opened our fire on their windows and in an instant it began again from one end of the village to the other, and everything was enveloped in smoke. At that moment I heard some one shout from below, "Joseph, Joseph!" It was Buche; he had had the courage after he had drank himself, to fill the bucket, unfasten it, and bring it back with him.
It might have been about one o'clock in the morning, and we thought ourselves safe, when suddenly Buche said to me: "Joseph, here are the Prussians!" And looking behind us, I saw in the moonlight five bronzed hussars from the same regiment as those who, the year before, had cut poor Klipfel to pieces. I thought this was a bad sign. "Is your gun loaded?" I asked Buche. "Yes."
The Prussians fell back, but a little distance away there was a whole battalion. Buche took Zébédé on his shoulders and started up the ladder. We followed him, shouting "Hurry!" while we aided him with all our strength to climb the ladder with his burden. I was next to the last, and I thought we should never get up.
The music did not cease, and masses of cavalry kept coming up behind us, principally dragoons. We were still on the march when suddenly the roar of musketry and cannon broke on our ears as when water breaking over its barriers sweeps all before it. I knew what it was, but Buche turned pale and looked at me in mute astonishment. "Yes, indeed, Jean," said I, "those over there are attacking St.
It was not exactly as it was in the old campaign, he was sergeant, and I only a common soldier; we loved each other always, but that made a difference of course. Jean Buche marched along beside me, with his round shoulders and his feet turned in like a wolf. The only thing he said from time to time was, that his shoes hurt him on the march, and that they should only be worn on parade.
At Sarrebourg we received tickets for lodgings. Mine was for the old printer Jârcisse, who knew Mr. Goulden and Aunt Grédel, and who made me dine at his table with my new comrade and bedfellow, Jean Buche, the son of a wood-cutter of Harberg, who had never eaten anything but potatoes before he was conscripted. He devoured everything, even to the bones that they set before us.
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