The florist in Verdun, a big fellow, always restless and uneasy, who will foretell the worst misfortunes until the end of his life, has given me an armful of roses and mimosas, that will look pretty there. There will be cigars for our friends and for our _poilus_, and champagne, naturally---- We have been arranging for this little fête for a long time; there will be quite a lot of us: thirteen or fourteen infantrymen, sappers, artillerists, all old habitués of the sector. We are taking with us all those who have been sent back for rest. When we pass Mont-sur-les-Côtes, the sentinel stops and becomes pensive at seeing seven or eight officers piled together in the little machine. It is terribly crowded. What loud bursts of laughter! How wonderful life is among young men of the same age who have made the supreme sacrifice of their existence and know the least of that fugitive joy that falls to a soldier's lot. Each one brings something to the dinner, some have _pâté de foie gras_, others _petits pois_, and pastry. How late it was when our automobile brought us a half-mile from the first line--this is what caused a reprimand from the "general staff" some days later! The boches are very quiet: not a rifle shot, not a cannon shot. The St. Remy searchlight which generally plays on the Eparges road is out to-night. We have climbed Eparges hill--we pass through the ruins of the village and they are silhouetted like Christmas eve decorations. The enemy is very near to us and it is drôle to think we have scaled the height to pass an evening, a real live pleasure party. When we arrive finally at Captain Gunther's dugout, there are cries of joy--. All his staff assist us with the numerous packages. The brave Ménard, with his commanding presence, his flowing mustache and kindly eyes, spares no pains to see that we are settled. Our dugout has become quite comfortable since the installation of electric lights. Everything is perfect; there is not a hitch. It is so crowded, elbow to elbow, that we throw off our tunics. What a dinner! The oysters and champagne are the best. Oyster forks in this region made us all think--Ménard had a Prince Albert coat on over his uniform. Where did he get it? Mystery! There is singing, laughing. They become grave when speaking of the comrades who are no more---- From time to time the ruffled form of one of our _poilus_ passes out the door. They know we have not forgotten them. They carry a bottle, a pâté, or a box of cigars--and so the fête extends even to the advanced posts of the first line. From the listening post to-morrow they will throw oyster shells at German heads. What faces they will make. Surely they will place them in their geological museum at Berlin. The flowers on the table, a fantasy of color, cause some to weep with emotion. We have the most profound respect for them: "How come you here in the center of death and destruction--you come to us from the warm, beautiful countryside----"