At midnight I am on guard with Reymond in front of the door. It is a clear, starry night. We hide ourselves in a corner against one of the pillars of the doorway, to obtain shelter from the icy north wind. Here we stand for a couple of hours. What is there for us to do? We begin by expressing, as Anatole France says: "most innocent thoughts in most crude terms." Away in the distance the dull roar of a cannon. The shrieking sound draws nearer. "Appears as though it were meant for us!" The shell whirls past and bursts a hundred yards from the door. A grunt of satisfaction on finding that the explosion has taken place at a safe distance. One observation: the shrieking of shells almost at the end of their course reminds one of the howl of a dog baying the moon. Shots follow one another. Every minute the distant "boom," then the hissing sound, which gradually grows more intense, and finally the explosion, a rending crash close at hand, followed by vibrations and the noise of broken branches. Not the slightest refuge for us. "Not often have I been annoyed as I am this evening," remarks one of us. "Nor I either!" remarks the other. "They might have waited till we had finished sentry duty before bombarding us." Renewed explosions. The door slightly opens, and the head of Corporal Chevalier appears. "Is the bombardment pretty violent?" "Bah! Nothing extraordinary." "The fact is--the lieutenant has sent me to say that, if things begin to look too serious, you may return. Useless to get killed for nothing." We would gladly have profited by the permission. Chevalier, however, does not belong to our squadron. Consequently we politely reply-- "All right, corporal, our best thanks to the lieutenant. We may as well finish our watch." Chevalier's head disappears. The door shuts. Fresh shells. "How stupid of us to swagger in this way!" we reflect. On coming to relieve us, the two following sentries, after muffling themselves up by lantern light, ask-- "A pretty heavy bombardment just now, eh?" I have the audacity to reply-- "Ah! We did not even pay attention to it, we were talking." And so, "_La tempeste finie, Panurge faict le bon compaignon_," as Rabelais said. _Monday, 23rd November._ The lieutenant appears at the door and calls out-- "Everybody under shelter, to the grottoes. The bombardment is beginning again." At that moment, indeed, a projectile dashes down upon one of the farm buildings, smashing in the stable roof. To reach the grottoes we have to run a hundred yards through the darkness. We are in the open. Those who have candles light them. _Tableau_. The grotto has been transformed into a sheep-fold. Several hundreds of sheep are moving to and fro, bleating all the time in stupid fashion.