But none of us lost our heads sufficiently to take refuge in the cellar without our munitions. One brought the fowl, another the bottles, a third the sauce, and someone the cheese and candles, and under the threat of shots which speeded us we reached our underground shelter. The light of two candles stuck in bottles showed us the table in the darkness and we spread out our dinner things anew. Above was the bombardment in all its intensity. Shots landed in the road level with our air-hole, which, as a provision against such an occurrence, had long since been stuffed with sandbags. We heard things falling! “_Mince!_ what are they offering us for Easter eggs?” This ready joke made us laugh, and we forgot the tragedy of the hour. In the heady anesthesia of real Pommard, and not christened “Pommard” for use at the front, but which had a real Burgundian bouquet, we forgot that the shells were raging in all their fury above us. The shadow of a man appeared at the entrance to the cellar. Illuminated by the wavering yellow lights of our candles, it stood out in sharp contrast in the darkness of the staircase. “Is the margis here?... Margis, the lieutenant says you are to bring all the horses at once to the gulley in the Caix woods and shelter them from the bombardment.” “All right, I’m coming. Go on, Dedouche, pour out another glass of Pommard. I’ll take my dessert in my pocket.” I picked up my helmet, mask and cane and was ready to go, as I listened through the vaults and hoped for a let-up in the storm. “It’s over. We can go.” “When you wish, old fellow. They’ve stopped for breath.” “You’ll find out in five minutes.” “Bah! I’ve more time to go than I need.” “Good luck, and if you find any Easter eggs on the way bring them back for dinner.” The adjutant’s reiterated joke no longer had the same zest for me and it hardly made me smile. Outside, the streets were empty, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The bombardment had stopped, but no one was taken in by this deceptive calm. From one moment to another we waited for a new bombardment even more violent than the first. The Boches are creatures of habit and this is not the first time they’ve played this trick. When they bombard a cantonment, they very often interrupt their bombardment some minutes so as to make us think it is over; then, when the men have ventured into the streets, they suddenly begin again and make fresh victims. A house has fallen in the middle of the road some steps from our cantonment. Débris block the way, and we have to climb over them. Farther along, at the other end of the street, a house which was still intact this morning is now in flames. There is no time to lose. Already several shells, advance messengers of the coming storm, begin to fall. I was about to dart across the Place when a “105” fell on the pavements and burst.