This morning we march twenty kilometres. The company collects in a meadow which a bend of the Marne has converted into a peninsula. During the tropical hours about noontime we indulge in a siesta beneath the faint shade of the poplars. This life is an extremely healthy one; it constitutes a regular camping-out cure. We now take our meals at the Hôtel du Commerce, kept by M. Girardot, nicknamed _Père Achille_. It is a large building on the main road between Paris and Belfort. Out in the yard and in both dining-rooms every table is engaged. Just as in the canteen, there is shouting and smoking, whilst the men call for drinks by hammering vigorously with their fists on the table. Every evening amateur singers give us proof of their talent. The song relating the story of Suzette is a very popular one. No sooner is the last verse ended than "_Bis! bis!_" is roared out, and a willing encore is forthcoming. The artist raises his hand to his mouth and coughs, before recommencing, and every one joins in the chorus. The smoke rising from the pipes casts a dim mist over the lamps which hang from the ceiling. _Saturday, 15th August_. _Père Achille_ places his loft at our disposal, at the farther end of the yard, above the stable. Climbing a ladder, you find bundles of hay to right and left. In the centre is a large open space containing a folding-bed occupied by Vitrier, of the 28th company, a neighbour and friend of the proprietor. Here we shall get along quite comfortably, all the more so as we have also the run of a garden. There is an apple-tree, beneath whose shade we spend our leisure hours. Four stone steps enable us to go down to the river to wash our clothes or our persons. After all, cleanliness is a very simple matter, so far as we are concerned. I have just seen the lieutenant in command of our company, and have given him my name. I am to leave with the next detachment which joins up, either with the regiment in reserve or with that in the field, according as the one or the other is the first to need reinforcements. This war will certainly not last long; we must hasten to reach the firing line if we could see anything of it. What can be the matter? Letters take five or six days to arrive from Paris. The only journals we see are those of Langres: the _Petit Haut-Marnais_ and the _Spectateur_, nicknamed at Humes _Le Secateur_. We crowd around the cyclists who bring them and clear off their supplies in a few moments. The Paris journals have altogether stopped. _Sunday, 16th August_. The company musters at seven in the morning; the four sections, each in two rows, forming a square around the lieutenants and sub-officers. The lieutenant in command is a kind-hearted man, on whom the gravity of the situation weighs heavily. This morning he declares curtly-- "The musters take far too long!" Profound silence. "Far too long. And I don't wish to speak of the matter again...."