and with unnatural clearness. Nearby could be seen the familiar ruins of a half-burned mansion occupied by the French, with lilac bushes still showing dark green beside the fence. And even that ruined and befouled house—which in dull weather was repulsively ugly—seemed quietly beautiful now, in the clear, motionless brilliance.
A French corporal, with coat unbuttoned in a homely way, a skullcap on his head, and a short pipe in his mouth, came from behind a corner of the shed and approached Pierre with a friendly wink.
“What sunshine, Monsieur Kiril!” (Their name for Pierre.) “Eh? Just like spring!”
And the corporal leaned against the door and offered Pierre his pipe, though whenever he offered it Pierre always declined it.
“To be on the march in such weather …” he began.
Pierre inquired what was being said about leaving, and the corporal told him that nearly all the