He has been here five days. Having been called up by mistake on the second day of mobilization, he was sent from Bernay to Langres, and then on to Humes. "Come along, let's have a talk over a bottle," he says. "What! Is there drink to be had at Humes?" "Rather! The beer they drink in these parts will take a lot of beating." Ten minutes afterwards one would think we had been the closest friends all our life. How fortunate to have come across Reymond! He is a painter, quite a gay companion, and possessed of that kind of assurance and self-confidence peculiar to certain bashful individuals. He is quite at home in the village, and carries us off to the office of our company. There he introduces us to the corporal, has our names enrolled in his squad, and supplies us with _gamelles_. "I suppose you have had nothing to eat?" he asks. "No." "Come along with me." He takes us to the cook. "Here are a couple of men who feel peckish." Our _gamelles_ are filled and we sit down on the ground. We mess together and eat our share of the grub. We are to receive our uniform to-morrow at the latest. Meanwhile, there is nothing left to do but wander about Humes. The Mouche is a pretty stream entering the Marne just on the outskirts of the village. There is a pool, a windmill, giant trees, and dung all over the place; cows and geese, poultry of every description, but few inhabitants. Soldiers abound. At nine o'clock, Verrier, Reymond and myself make our bed in the hay. All around may be heard the usual jokes and pleasantries of the mess, just as in times of peace. One may distinguish the thick, rolling voices of those from Burgundy and the Franche-Comté, the accent of the Lyons silk-weavers, and the peculiar intonations of men from the various provinces. Bursts of laughter, then snoring followed by silence. Down below, in a stable, the plaintive lowing of a calf. _Thursday, 13th August._ Four in the morning. "Time to get up!" We shake and stretch ourselves. It is rather chilly. The men come down from the loft on a tottering ladder which has one out of every two rungs missing. In the street, the army cook, who has long been up and about, ladles coffee from a huge pot and fills the tins held out. In the tumult each man retires into a corner to avoid spilling the precious liquid. Six o'clock. We are marched out of the village in columns of fours. The country is charming; the meadows through which flows the Marne are lined with poplars. We return to quarters at ten o'clock. The sun's rays are beating down upon us. We baptize our street Dung Avenue. Fortunately for us, the impossibility of isolating ourselves prevents us from thinking of what we have left behind. Here solitude and silence are unknown. _Friday, 14th August_.