We all figure in the collection. Varlet is a striking type, with his badger profile immoderately lengthened out by a pipe in the form of a shell or conch, which appears to be soldered on to his nose. The beetroot haunts our very dreams. Since we are fated to be tormented with the beetroot for all eternity, we may as well extract what fun we can from it. CHAPTER XI CHRISTMAS _Wednesday, 23rd December._ The third day in the front line. The section is on guard at the telephone. There is a good _gourbi_ or hut provided for each half-section. Two hours' sentry duty on the Vregny road, along which a spent ball comes whistling from time to time. A pleasant diversion; Captain P---- of the Flying Corps arrives from Paris in a motor-car, and sends for Reymond and myself. We go down to the car, which has come to a halt below the grotto. Muddy and slimy, enveloped in multi-coloured wrappings, rifle and cartridges hanging on to our persons, pipes in mouth and bearded faces, dirty and grimy, we all the same greet the captain with a very martial military salute. He has brought us an enormous hamper of provisions. What luck! We are now assured of keeping up Christmas-eve. He also brings us letters, and offers to take back any messages from ourselves. In a dreamy maze of wonder we gaze upon this astonishing individual, who will be in Paris to-night, and whose surroundings are something else than fields of beetroots. Whilst engaged in conversation, a 150 shell falls a few yards from the car. It fails to explode. Captain P---- briefly gives us the news. The war will last longer than people think; perhaps another five or six months. We ourselves, it appears, are in a very quiet sector, neither attacked nor attacking, just mounting guard. _Thursday, 24th December._ A bright sun, fine and cold weather. The company go down to the grotto, where they are to sleep to-night. Consequently we shall celebrate our Christmas-eve "beneath these vaults of stone" as the song goes in _Don Carlos_. Here comes the postman. What a heap of parcels! We spend the afternoon in unpacking them; the war is forgotten; our main preoccupation is to prepare a dinner to which the squadron will all contribute. Jules has gone down to Bucy; for once he has received the lieutenant's permission. His errand is to bring back some wine. Crouching in a corner, with a bayonet-candlestick by my side, I write away. The man next to me becomes irritated by my silence and evident preoccupation. "What are you writing?" he asks. "A letter to my servant." "Well! That's the very last thing I should have expected you to do." "You fool! I'm giving her instructions to send out my New Year's gifts, telling her to buy boxes of sweets and chocolates, and giving her the addresses to which they are to be sent, with my card." No sooner have I spoken than a whole string of epithets--snob, _poseur_, dandy--comes down on my devoted head. I reply in very dignified fashion--