“The adjutant,” went on Dedouche, “he’s not an adjutant. He’s a brother, a father, a friend, a man, what! Never a word of anger, never a punishment, always agreeable and kind. And in spite of that he’s had a career. He’s been in Morocco, China, and Madagascar, and no one knows where else. He’s been in the service eleven years, but you wouldn’t think it to look at him.” This running biography brought us to the open door which framed the lieutenant’s tall figure. “Say, _Margis_” (the lieutenant knew his military terminology and this abbreviation was not without zest), “are you rested from your journey?” “I wasn’t tired, Lieutenant.” “How about your horse?” “No more than I was. Do you think that after three days stretched out on the straw in his car, without moving ...?” “Then, if you are willing, we’ll both go to the echelon.” “All right, Lieutenant.” A question must have framed itself on my face, for he added almost at once: “Yes, the echelon, the fighting train, the cavalry. You’ll be more at home there. We left it below at Morcourt, seven or eight miles away, on account of the shells that fall here sometimes. Horses, you know, cost more than men, so we have to economize them. It is understood, then? We’ll go about noon. Saddle both horses. Meet me here.” Then he strode off and joined a group of officers who were coming up the main street of the village to the church. Dedouche was already full of attention for me—just think of a man from home on the “little staff”—and he now burst forth eagerly: “Don’t trouble yourself, _Logis_. I’ll tell the groom to saddle the horses and bring them here.” The smoke still persisted in the dark, littered confusion of the room, but combined with it now was an odor of burnt grease mixed with the moldy smell of a ragout with onions and strong cheese. In addition, spread out on the table, were the remnants of a meal, which had just been finished, the rolls, the account books and reports. The quartermaster-corporal, the silent fellow from Marseilles, immersed in reading _Le Soleil du Midi_, did not even condescend to look up. In response to my friendly good-by, he let a scarcely perceptible “adieu” slip through his lips. The quartermaster was stretched out on a dirty mattress thrown on the ground, and juggling two packages of English cigarettes, while he sang at the top of his lungs—and what a voice he had!—the latest song: _Mes amis, dans la vie_ _Faut faire des économies_ _Les journaux vous l’ont dit._ _C’est aussi mon avis._ This intellectual refrain must have given him extreme pleasure, for he began it again and again without any interruption. “Well,” I said, “judging from the looks of things, you aren’t often disturbed here?” At this the drummer cast me a searching look, cold, disdainful and commiserating, as much as to say to me, “One can see that you’ve just come!”