Le Clapas is the nickname given to Montpellier in the territory. And at that there came all at once a bewildering flow of words. Dedouche began to tell me, mixing it all up in an incredible confusion, about his birthplace, his adventures, his former regular occupation, in the depths of a pharmacy in a small street under the shadow of the University, his transfer from the auxiliary to active service, his wound in Champagne. All this was interspersed with frequent exclamations and repetitions, “Say, tell me, _Maréchal_, will this war ever be over?” and then regrets for his home land, “Say, tell me, _Logis_, wouldn’t it be better down there in the good sun?” In these different attempts to get nearer to the term “_maréchal de logis_,” I observed Dedouche’s obvious good will, but what interested me most was a little advance knowledge about the company. So Dedouche sketched in a few words a picture of it, which was absolutely accurate, as I was able to appreciate later. “The lieutenant is a very chic type. No one would think to look at him that he is from the South, too. He appears cold and hard, like that, but it’s not natural; he puts it on. He’s good-hearted at bottom. He’s a Basque and isn’t afraid of anything. You ought to have seen him in Champagne at Massiges. Oh, and then we have besides his fellow countryman, Sub-Lieutenant Delpos, a blond. He’s not here now; he’s down at Morcourt with the echelon. He’s a type too, not stuck-up, but he’s agreeable and good-humored. “Oh, those in the billets,” Dedouche sketched with a vague wave of the hand, as if to say something like this: “They’re of no importance; they’re brothers, friends, and not worth talking about.” Perhaps his gesture meant something else, but that’s what I thought it meant. And as if he were responding to my implied question, he went on: “—there is only the drummer who’s from the South, too; he’s what they call the ‘quartermaster corporal,’ I don’t know why. He’s a good fellow, but he does not talk. At least he only talks rarely, and he’s from Marseilles, too; no one would think it to see him. He makes me mad most of the time. “Oh, the rest! The corporal of infantry is from Paris. I don’t know him. He only came five or six days ago. He hasn’t told us anything yet; he only sings. And what songs! Good God, they’re enough to make one blush! “The _juteux_—the adjutant,” interrupted Dedouche, for he rarely used slang. With the exception of “_pinard_” and “_tacot_,” which have become hallowed and have taken an official place even in the most refined language of the armies, Dedouche rarely used a vulgar or misplaced word in his conversation. This was not because he was opposed to it nor from false modesty, but because his occupation as a “scientist” had given him the habit of using good language.