Between meals I write letters. Maxence, seated near the fire, with his legs crossed and his hand under his chin, smokes cigarettes. He muses, and at the same time keeps an eye on a rice pudding on the point of boiling over. This native of Franche-Comté feasts on the most insipid things, and obstinately refuses to drink wine or to eat cheese. Fond of hunting, he chatters away to Jules, who comes from the same province. Landed proprietor and poacher discuss the different methods of tracking a hare, and talk seriously about other matters connected with hunting. In a corner Varlet reads everything he can lay his hands on, even old illustrated journals. Sometimes he starts off on an expedition and brings back a leg of mutton. Jacquard, a jack-of-all-trades, is always doing something, either cooking or repairing. Verrier, our treasurer, slowly and minutely brings the accounts up to date, with the gravity and seriousness he bestows on everything he undertakes. Simply watching him roll a cigarette enables one to see that he never does anything lightly. About noon the _Petit Parisien_ reaches Bucy. The reading of the communiqué and the dispatches gives us to understand how impossible it is to foresee the end of the war. Six months ... a year.... Such are the hypotheses we once laughed at, though now they appear logical enough. At bottom, we believe there will happen something unexpected and formidable which will bring victory and peace.... Then we begin to discuss matters. Since all six of us are bound by the ties of true friendship, there is nothing upon which we are of one mind: Varlet, a working electrician, who has often found it difficult to make ends meet, considers that everything is not for the best in the best of all societies. Maxence, with a stake in the land, regards Varlet as a dangerous customer. Jacquard, who is in the hosiery business, is a well-balanced individual, very optimistic, who reads between the lines of every dispatch the coming entry of the Russians into Berlin, and the complete exhaustion of Germany. Verrier is a moderate and restrained sort of fellow. He says: "I am just going to sleep a little," or "eat a little," or "wash myself a little." Always "a little." We call him: "not too much," or sometimes _Verrierus tristis_, the silent. He forms an interesting contrast to the exuberant Reymond. Mother Achain and her little daughter, their heads enveloped in black kerchiefs and their hands clasped on their knees, smile quietly as they watch us bawl and gesticulate. Father Achain, in the darkest recess of the room, between fireplace and bed, is everlastingly drawing away at a pipe that has gone out. From time to time he walks to the door and stands there for a while. On returning, he says-- "There's some heavy firing going on above the Gué-Brûlé." _Saturday, 12th December._ Bad news from Russia.... At six in the evening we return to the trenches. Whilst marching along, our company crosses some light infantry.