te and refuse that ensues upon a
day of slaughter, viewed in the cold, raw light of dawn.

Bouroche, who, after a few hours of repose, had already resumed his
duties, stopped in front of the wounded drummer-boy, Bastian, then
passed on with an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. A hopeless case;
nothing to be done. The lad had opened his eyes, however, and emerging
from the comatose state in which he had been lying, was eagerly watching
a sergeant who, his _kepi_ filled with gold in his hand, had come into
the room to see if there were any of his men among those poor wretches.
He found two, and to each of them gave twenty francs. Other sergeants
came in, and the gold began to fall in showers upon the straw, among the
dying men. Bastian, who had managed to raise himself, stretched out his
two hands, even then shaking in the final agony.

"Don't forget me! don't forget me!"

The sergeant would have passed on and gone his way, as Bouroche had
done. What good could money do there? Then yielding to a kindly impulse,
he threw some coins, never stopping to count them, into the poor hands
that were already cold.

"Don't forget me! don't forget me!"

Bastian fell backward on his straw. For a long time he groped with
stiffening fingers for the elusive gold, which seemed to avoid him. And
thus he died.

"The gentleman has blown his candle out; good-night!" said a little,
black, wizened zouave, who occupied the next bed. "It's vexatious, when
one has the wherewithal to pay for wetting his whistle!"

He had his left foot done up in splints. Nevertheless he managed to
raise himself on his knees and elbows and in this posture crawl over to
the dead man, whom he relieved of all his money, forcing open his hands,
rummaging among his clothing and the folds of his capote. When he got
back to his place, noticing that he was observed, he simply said:

"There's no use letting the stuff be wasted, is there?"

Maurice, sick at heart in that atmosphere of human distress and
suffering, had long since dragged Jean away. As they passed out through
the shed where the operations were performed they saw Bouroche preparing
to amputate the leg of a poor little man of twenty, without chloroform,
he having been unable to obtain a further supply of the anaesthetic. And
they fled, running, so as not to hear the poor boy's shrieks.

Delaherche, who came in from the street just then, beckoned to them and
shouted:

"Come upstairs, come, quick!