The low-roofed room, which receives air and light only by way of the door, was evidently white-washed long ago. There are spiders' webs in every corner. The floor consists of beaten earth. The walls are bare except for two chromos--Nicholas II and Félix Faure--just visible beneath fly-stained glasses. The beds take up almost the entire space available. We sleep right through the night and late into the next morning. The hours spent in profound slumber represent so much gained from the war. _Saturday, 19th December._ Yesterday we were right in feeling anxious about our friends. From daybreak onwards the farm has been bombarded over our heads. The shells roar with varying intensity as they pass, according to their size. The little ten-year-old girl, skipping about the yard in her _sabots_, hums out-- "There! That's a 210 at least, and this one a 105. Oh, that little one's but a 77!" A loud crash, however, sends her flying into the cellar. When she comes up again she tremblingly clutches her mother's skirt. Madame Achain gives her a good shaking. "What's the matter with you, little stupid?" "Oh, I'm frightened of the shells!" "A fine tale, indeed! Look at these _messieurs_, are they frightened?" These _messieurs_, quietly seated, affect an impassive attitude, to reassure the child. About three o'clock a lull. We walk over to visit the hospital attendants. A hearty welcome, cups of tea, every one very polite. A couple of armchairs are provided for us by the fireplace. We are treated like lords of a manor. The Germans are now firing upon Vénizel, some distance farther away. The petrol works seem to be in flames. Our hosts invite us to view the spectacle from the second floor. It is hazy, however, and nothing can be distinguished except a dense cloud of yellowish smoke on the other bank of the Aisne. "Really, you have no luck at all!" exclaim the attendants; "generally we can make out Vénizel as distinctly as though we were in the town itself." Soissons also is being violently bombarded. At night our friends return from the Montagne farm. Varlet affirms-- "We were awfully sorry for you. You missed the _marmites_ falling all about your ears." A couple of projectiles, it seems, had fallen right on to the cattle-shed; a shrapnel had crashed through the dormer-window of the stable where the squadron lay stretched on the ground, and riddled the door with bullets. The section had to take refuge in the grotto-like sheep-fold in the midst of the sheep, now bleating louder than ever. _Sunday, 20th December._ The hours pass very slowly. This morning, for a couple of hours, we had to return to the trenches, to clear away the earth and make them deeper, and so counteract the ravages of the rain.