Alpine infantry from the _Midi_ relieve us. The company goes down to quarter at Bucy-le-Long. We have now been in the trenches twelve days. None the less do we receive the order to "be ready for every eventuality." _Friday, 6th November._ After a passable night in the cellar of a house in ruins, we send out Jules, as usual, to find decent lodging for us. He does so and brings us to see it. It is a large bedroom where it is possible for us to remove our boots, change our linen, shave, and generally make ourselves presentable. The luncheon is a substantial one. Seated round the table, we look almost like normal human beings once more. Besides, our hands are actually clean! This night, our undressed carcasses slip into white bed-clothes. It is two months since we have had such a treat! _Saturday, 7th November._ At six in the morning Varlet enters like a whirlwind-- "Get up at once, lazy-bones! Muster in half an hour." "Bah! You're joking!" "Come now; quick, into your clothes! We are going back to the trenches." So this is the promised eventuality! At half-past six the company musters in a farmyard. The order to leave has not yet come. Seated on our haversacks, we snatch a hasty breakfast. Fortunately, Reymond has received some good cigars, which he passes round. He sings us a Spanish song-- _Padre capucino mata su mujer, La corta en pedazos, la pone a cocer. Gente que pasaba olia tocino: Era la mujer del padre capucino._ This means: "The Capuchin monk has killed his wife, cut her in pieces and set her to cook. The passers-by say there is a smell of burning fat. That's what is left of the wife of the Capuchin monk." This absurd song puts us in good humour. At three o'clock, _en route_ for the trenches. The men say to one another-- "We are off at last." For the moment at least the company is to support the batteries installed in the wood above the road from Bucy to Margival. The 75's are booming away. What is going to happen? Nothing at all. Night falls. We sit or lie on the ground along the road awaiting orders, chatting, smoking, and jesting to kill time. Milliard and Henriot mount the hill. We prepare to receive them. But how is it that they are armed and equipped? Above all, why do they come empty-handed? And that, just at the time we expect our letters? Milliard simply remarks-- "Well, we're here." Henriot is in one of his silent moods; we can get nothing out of him. "Where are the letters?" "Letters, letters," says Milliard, irritated, "you all think of nothing but your letters." This reply fills us with consternation. Something serious must have happened for our postman to speak in this strain. Some one remarks peevishly-- "The company is to attack this evening or to-morrow morning. If any one gets a bullet through the head and dies without receiving his letters it will be all your fault." Milliard makes a gesture expressive of regret.