Gabriel reads the daily orders: "Every morning, drill and marching. Tuesdays and Thursdays, rifle practice. Afternoons, lectures in quarters from one to three; afterwards, Swedish gymnastics." This existence in the depot, a blend between barrack-life and drill, will not be so very pleasant every day. May the powers that be send us speedily to battle! This morning, at nine o'clock, military mass. The church is situated on an eminence above Humes. Once the threshold is crossed, profound silence. Silence in broad daylight! Well, well! It rather puts one out! There are flags around the walls. All the seats are occupied by soldiers and officers, _pêle-mêle_. A few peasant women are present, their sombre garments clashing with the blue and red uniforms. It is a musical mass, and the music is worthy of a cathedral: all the instrumentalists and singers of the depot have had their services requisitioned. How striking the contrast between this grave ritual and ceremonial, the successive chants and breaks of silence, and the rough, stirring military life we have been spending for several days past, made up of shouts and hay, of cattle and dung. A young priest has passed a surplice over his soldier's coat. His words are mild and kind, his sermon straight to the point, as he pleads the claims of family and country. The listeners weave their own dreams around his simple words as they fall upon the attentive and thoughtful assembly. The end of the mass brings with it a change; these men, who have suddenly been unexpectedly moved in spite of themselves, make up for an hour's silence and immobility by shouting aloud and hustling one another. Back at the hotel, with the aid of pipe and beer, they laud to the skies the priest's eloquence. Big Albert, for whom it has been impossible to find a pair of pants large enough in the stores, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after he has emptied his glass, and says-- "Believe me or not, as you please, but when that little priest spoke of our mothers and wives and children, well! I could no more keep back the tears than a woman!" And there he stands, with legs outspread and hands in pockets, his vest unbuttoned over his protruding paunch. Evidently _he_ is not subject to nervous attacks. Reymond, Verrier and myself have obtained a pass for Langres. Lunch at the hotel; napkins and tablecloth. What luxury! The young lady who serves us is very polite. We enter various shops to purchase chocolate, wax candles, writing-paper, blacking, a lantern and some of Molière's plays to read aloud in the loft. We return to Humes at six o'clock, shouting out songs at the top of our voice as the rain comes pouring down. _Monday, 17th August_. Five hundred men have been appointed to make up a detachment which is to hold itself in readiness to leave for the front at a minute's notice. My name is on the list, which includes men of the youngest classes and volunteers. It forms the contingent complement.