It is only a humble Estaminet, where, in the old days, Pierre Lapont and old Daddy Duchesne discussed a “chope,” and talked over the failings of the younger generation, but nowadays it bears a notice on the little door leading into the back room, “For officers only.” The men have the run of the larger room, during hours, but the little parlour in rear is a spot sacred to those wearing from one star upwards. Madame Matifas is old, and very large. “Mais, Monsieur le Capitaine, dans ma jeunesse.... Ah! Alors!”--and she dearly loves a good hearty laugh. She also sells most excellent champagne, and--let it be murmured softly--Cointreau, Benedictine, and very rarely a bottle of “Skee” (“B. & W.” for choice). She has twinkling brown eyes, fat comfortable-looking hands, and we all call her “Mother,” while she calls those of us who please her “Mon brave garçon.” But La Veuve Matifas is not the sole attraction of the Bon Fermier nor are even her very excellent wines and other drinks, that may inebriate. She has two children: Cécile and Marie Antoinette. The former is, strange to say, “petite” and “mignonne”--she is also very pretty and she knows all the officers of our Division; most of the young and tender ones write to her from the trenches. You may kiss Cécile on the cheek if you know her well. Marie Antoinette is of the tall, rather rich coloured, passionate type. She was engaged to a “Little Corporal” of the 77th Infantry of the Line. Alas, he died of wounds seven months ago. She wears mourning for him, but Marie is now in love with the Senior Major, or else we are all blind! (Uneasy rests the arm that wears a crown!) However, that is neither here not there. We like the widow Matifas, and we all admire her daughters, while some of us fall in love with them, and we _always_ have a “stirring time” when we reach rest billets within walking distance of the “Estaminet du Bon Fermier,” or even gee gee distance. In defiance of the A.P.M. we float into town about 8 “pip emma” (the O.C. signals _will_ bring “shop” into every-day conversation) and stealthily creep up the little back alley which leads to the back door of the Estaminet. We gather there--four of us, as a rule--and we tap thrice. We hear a fat, uneven walk, and the heavy respiration of “Maman,” and then: “Qui est là?” “C’est nous, Mère Matifas!” The door is unbolted, and we enter. Scholes invariably salutes Maman on both cheeks, and we--if we have the chance--salute her daughters. Then we carry on to the parlour. Pelham--who thinks all women love his goo-goo eyes--tries to tell Marie Antoinette, in simply rotten French, how much he loves her, and Marie gets very business-like, and wants to know if we want Moët et Chandon at 12 frcs. a bottle or “the other” at six. So far we have never dared to try “the other,” for fear that we appear “real mean”! Maman bustles about, and calls us her brave boys, and _never_ says a word about the war, which is a real kindness to us war-weary people.