The frost has disappeared; now we have a thaw with its inevitable filth and mud. The entrance of the grotto is a veritable sewer. We enter along slippery slopes, almost impassable. Latest news from the kitchens: the regiment is about to leave for the fort of Arche, near Epinal, unless it goes on to Amiens ... unless, again, it remains here. This evening, in the grotto, Maxence lies on his back smoking a cigarette. He murmurs softly to Reymond, who is making a sketch, some lines from the _Fêtes galantes_-- _Au calme clair de lune triste et beau Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau, Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres._ Varlet, naked down to the waist, turns round and round, rolling himself in his flannel girdle, one end of which is held tight by Meuret, who is always ready to lend a helping hand. Mauventre, _Piaf_, and the "Fireman" are playing cards with the corporal, making comments on each move. Charensac crouches down, drawing up an inventory of the wealth he has stored away in his haversack. The rest, rolled snugly in their coverings, sleep and snore. _Friday, 27th November._ Our artillery vigorously bombards the enemy's trenches. Nothing to do except watch the shells--and the rain--fall. _Saturday, 28th November._ In the front line the section occupies a new sector, not yet completed. A misty maddening rain chills us to the very bones. Impossible to see twenty yards in front of one. The kind of weather which gives you the impression that the sun has left this world and will never return. _Sunday, 29th November._ The 24th goes down to Bucy at six in the evening. Our hosts know the hour we are to be relieved. They expect us. "_Sainte Vierge_, what a filthy condition you are in!" exclaims Madame Achain. We are delighted to see our beds once again. Madame Achain would gladly change the bed linen, if she had any--but she has not, and one must not be too dainty in war time. _Monday, 30th November._ Another quiet day spent by the fireside in conversation, playing cards and writing letters. This morning Jacquard is charged with the making of our chocolate. When the six bowls, filled to the brim, are on the table, he calls out-- "Come, messieurs, breakfast is waiting, messieurs!" How grandiloquent it sounds! We appear, only half awake, slouching along in slippers and old shoes. If perchance the chocolate is boiled too much or too little, if it is too thick or too thin, then the patient Jacquard must submit to sarcastic reproaches, to complaints from men who, most assuredly, would not tolerate the slightest inconvenience! _Tuesday, 1st December._ To-day we are road-labourers, an occupation lacking interest, though preferable to that of grave-digger.