"Better prophesy," says another, "the possible departure of the 352nd for a town in the centre. This is looked upon as certain, and it would suit me splendidly." "If only we could get away from the roar of the guns for a fortnight!" "Don't be too full of self-pity; life is worth living to-night, at all events." And indeed our refuge seems the very abode of peace and quiet. The door opens noisily, and Varlet, a short, bearded man, smoking a thick pipe, shouts out-- "We are going back to the trenches." We all exclaim-- "No, no! We have heard that tale already; you told it us the day before yesterday." "Well," jeers Varlet, "it wasn't a joke then, and to-night it's a serious matter. Muster in twenty minutes. Get ready." Thereupon we make a rush to our haversacks. Everything is scattered about: boots and suspenders, bed-clothes and tins of preserves. Everybody speaks at once. "You're taking my belongings!" "Look a little more carefully. Surely I know my own business!" "We shall meet again in the trenches." A couple of hours will surely be insufficient to restore order out of such chaos. All the same, twenty minutes after the arrival of the messenger of woe, we have rejoined the section, fully armed and equipped, perspiring and out of breath, though not forgetting a single pin. Our hosts are at the door. The old dame is heartbroken. She keeps repeating-- "You cannot go without dinner, you poor creatures! What of my rabbit? Since you have paid for it, take it with you. Are you going away on an empty stomach?" "We cannot help it! Such are the horrors of war!" We glance round the little house and take our departure, somewhat angrily, though we pass it off as though some one had played us a practical joke. We muster in the dark. "Number off in fours!" Each man barks out his number. Then comes the command-- "Right wheel! Quick march!" "Where are we going, sergeant?" "Back to the grotto, to spend the night." And to think of our poor stew! I now understand why the word "rabbit" is sometimes used to express a rendez-vous which comes to nothing. _Wednesday, 11th November._ Distribution of tent canvas to each man. At three o'clock the company mounts to the outposts. Verrier, who has been unwell for some days past, remains in the grotto. It rains the first part of the night. In the first-line trenches there is no cover: two upright walls of mud. We sit on the ground when we are tired. Maxence says-- "Fling a cover over my head, so that I may smoke a cigarette without being seen." Not a shot fired to-day. _Thursday, 12th November._ A fine, cold day. The morning mist clears away. Absolute calm. At eight o'clock the cooks, fully equipped and with rifles slung across their shoulders, bring in the soup. A bad sign. They say-- "The company attacks at a quarter-past ten." "Ah! Good!" The chiefs of the section confirm the news. The men whistle in a tone that is full of meaning. This time it seems to be serious.