Extremely tall and well built, strong as a Turk, a full-moon face enlivened with cunning little eyes, a voice of thunder, a Gargantuan appetite, an ant's rapacity and a dormouse's capacity for sleep, such is Charensac, the gas-fitter from Auvergne. For a packet of canteen tobacco, worth exactly three farthings, you may obtain from him the most extraordinary things, for instance, silence for a space of twenty-four hours. Brawling and uneducated as he is, however, he can count his change quite well, and it is impossible to cheat him. We often say to him: "Charensac, you are nothing but matter!" "Charensac, you make a god of your stomach!" "Charensac, you have every possible vice, you are a disgrace to the first squadron!" His optimism cannot be shaken by such insults, for he sees in them our inexhaustible goodness of heart. Henriot coldly looks on at Charensac's evolution. He is a Parisian printer, intelligent and well educated, indifferent to danger, a taciturn fellow, tall and solidly built, almost bald, with the face of a Socrates. Mauventre, all nose and forehead, always wears a woollen cap, similar to those affected by chestnut sellers. The wretched fellow has a perpetual dread of shells and bullets. Never does the company muster without Mauventre remarking sadly-- "A projectile is bound to drop right in the middle of us." Briban, a native of Dijon, has a parrot's profile on the body of a shepherd-spider. And finally, Pierrot, nicknamed "_Piaf_," a Paris drayman, possesses the classic physique of a Zouave. _Piaf_ and Briban are now our cooks. Briban is called the "Fireman," because, having had his head-gear removed by a bullet in September, after going for a whole week in a cotton cap, he at last found in a field a fireman's _képi_, of which he took immediate possession. The first company also includes Verrier, Maxence, Varlet, Jacquard, Reymond and myself. A fine squadron. Sergeant Chaboy enters. "Have you room for me here?" We shout out: "_Vive Chaboy!_" and welcome him affectionately, for he has manoeuvred his half-section beneath the enemy's fire without losing a single man. At nine o'clock the lieutenant calls for volunteers to pick up the dead. Varlet, Jacquard, and Charensac offer themselves; they are anxious to bring back two old chums with whom they served before war broke out. They return at midnight. _Saturday, 14th November._ Eight bodies are laid out here, in front of the grotto, with their uniforms all torn and muddy. We try to recognize them. Around the bodies things follow their ordinary course: fatigue duty, men sweeping and digging the road. The cooks are busy about the fire. Ten men ordered to dig a grave at Bucy cemetery set off, shovel or pick on shoulder. Belin runs up; he has not been able to get away from his company sooner. On finding us all alive, he lifts his hands in the air and can scarcely contain himself for joy. The 21st has only a few wounded.