"I have received a bill for one hundred francs. Now for some white
wine of Alsace. Let us try to get out."
"That is well thought of," said he, twisting his mustache and putting
his pipe in his pocket. "I do not like to mope in a garden when there
are taverns outside. We must get permission."
We arose joyfully and went to the hospital, when, the letter-carrier,
coming out, stopped Zimmer, saying:
"Are you Christian Zimmer, of the Second horse artillery?"
"I have that honor, monsieur the carrier."
"Well, here is something for you," said the other, handing him a little
package and a large letter.
Zimmer was stupefied, never having received anything from home or from
anywhere else. He opened the packet--a box appeared--then the box--and
saw the cross of honor. He became pale; his eyes filled with tears, he
staggered against a balustrade, and then shouted "_Vive l'Empereur!_"
in such tones that the three halls rang and rang again.
The carrier looked on smiling.
"You are satisfied," said he.
"Satisfied! I need but one thing more."
"And what is that?"
"Permission to go to the city."
"You must ask Monsieur Tardieu, the surgeon-in-chief."
He went away laughing, while we ascended arm-in-arm, to ask permission
of the surgeon-major, an old man, who had heard the "_Vive
l'Empereur!_" and demanded gravely:
"What is the matter?"
Zimmer showed his cross and replied:
"Pardon, major; but I am more than usually merry."
"I can easily believe you," said Monsieur Tardieu; "you want a pass to
the city?"
"If you will be so good; for myself and my comrade, Joseph Bertha."
The surgeon had examined my wound the day before. He took out his
portfolio and gave us passes. We left as proud as kings--Zimmer of his
cross, I, of my letter.
Downstairs in the great vestibule the porter cried:
"Hold on there! Where are you going?"
Zimmer showed him our passes, and we sallied forth, glad to breathe the
free air, without, once more. A sentinel showed us the post-office,
where I was to receive my hundred francs.
Then, more gravely, for our joy had sunk deeper in our hearts, we
reached the gate of Halle about two musket shots to the left, at the
end of a long avenue of lindens. Each faubourg is separated from the
old ramparts only by these avenues, and all around Leipzig passes
another very wide one, also bordered with lindens. The ramparts are
very old--such as we see at Saint Hippolyte, on the upper
Rhine,--crumbling, grass-grown walls; at least such they are if the
Germans have not repaired them since 1813.