Whilst the rest are away at drill I stay behind, the major having exempted me from duty. I seize the opportunity to do the house work and Jules gives me a helping hand. It is Jules' dream to become a _valet de chambre_ in Paris. His views on life as lived in the capital are unusual and lacking in precision. He says to me-- "When peace is proclaimed, won't you take me back with you?" "Listen to me, Jules, I don't want to hurt you, but I cannot afford more than one servant." "Nonsense, a man like you!" "Yes, you see how badly society is built up." Jules goes over his good points-- "You know me well; I can easily adapt myself to things. With me, you may have your mind at peace, I would take charge of everything, and you would not even need to pay me." Such disinterestedness sends a shudder through me. "You agree?" asks Jules. "But--don't you see, I'm tied down here." "How stupid you are! Things will not always remain as they are now." "And what if I am killed?" "Don't talk like that. It would be a pity!" He sticks to his idea, for he has chosen me to assist him in the realization of his dreams. Finally he remarks-- "You will leave me free to go out whenever I want, won't you? And every morning I'll go and kill some little birds for you." In the evening we chat away with quite civilian freedom of mind. We forget both what we are engaged upon, and where we are. Plans for the future are discussed without any one thinking of making the remark that our talk is very silly. We pay attention neither to our odd-looking accoutrements, nor to our unshaven chins. We are not even aware of our tired condition. We go out into the yard for a quiet smoke. It is very mild; the sky is lit up with stars, as in times of peace. Away towards the north we hear the firing of the sentries. The cannon is booming on our left. Reymond does not feel sleepy; neither do I. "Suppose we write an article for the _Figaro_?" Agreed. I set to work. After scribbling away for an hour, I hand a few sheets across to Reymond. After reading them, he declares-- "How idiotic!" I feel hurt. "Then write the article yourself, since you are so clever." "It's not my business; I'm a painter. Begin it all over again." I obey. More sheets and a further reading by Reymond. "This time it's not quite so bad. Suppose we go over it word for word." At two in the morning we are still at it. Our aim is to set forth nothing but facts, and at the same time to thrill our readers. _Wednesday, 6th January._ It's all very well to play at being journalists, and to spend the night in writing, but this morning we must all be ready for drill at half-past seven. The two collaborators are snoring away. Varlet wakes us by walking over our bodies. "Come now, up! you two journalists." The journalists refuse to budge. "You'll be marked absent!" "Don't trouble about that."