Behind are the horses, the huts of the four sections of the echelon, and the war train. And at the end the four large caissons of ammunition and the munition wagons. Burette and Morin, the clerks, cannot make a simple tent do. More comfortable quarters are necessary for their work. After a day of hunting around Burette came back to camp, radiant. “_Mon vieux_, I’ve found something wonderful. We’ll live like princes.” “Where did you get it?” “Some fine people. It’s next to the mayor’s.” “_Mince!_ You look well. Did they offer you the house?” “You’ll see. It’s better than that.” “Better than that!” We stamped our feet in impatience. Such a windfall is worth while. If we stay here a whole month we shall be well lodged. I was already rejoicing in the thought of being able to build a comfortable bed. Saux, on whom devolved the delicate and most often difficult care of our getting moved, foresaw innumerable conveniences. Morin alone remained sceptical. He is that temperamentally. He sees no good in this north country. He has been morose ever since he left Provence, and he won’t smile again until he hears tinkle in his ravished ears the familiar evocative sonorities of Avignon, Arles, Miramas, Le Pas des Lanciers, L’Estaque. The sun, the blue sky, the blue sea! And how right Morin is! The sun exaggerates, but in openness and beauty. The fogs are deceitful.... Far better to be dazzled than deceived.... Morin distrusts the splendid cantonment of Morcourt. He knows those at Proyart, Chuignolles, Minacourt, Virginy ... and others besides.... Oh, for the commonest hut, the most modest cabin, ruined though it be and sordid, but haloed in the sun, flooded with clear light, bathed in the silver foliage of the olives, planted down there on the rocks of Pointe-Rouge or of L’Estaque, beside the sea, sheltered in the valleys of Camions, or perched on the hills of Allauch! How much better it is, how much better worth living in, than the most sumptuous castles buried in the damp forests where the stones are green under the moss. High on a hill on the road to Harbonnières opens the courtyard of a farm. Burette leads us there in triumph. It is his discovery. He crosses the court, and opens majestically a small low door, with a barrel on each side in which stunted geraniums vegetate miserably. It is an old pig-sty! Scraped and washed with a lot of water, it will be habitable. We’ll make something out of it. Burette borrows a long table and at once covers it with his innumerable account books. We make our beds against the walls. Thirty ammunition caissons placed in double rows, a mattress stuffed with hay, a tent cloth, two covers—that’s our camp. The corner at the back falls to Morin. It is the longest way of the room and he can stretch out his whole tall form at his ease, which he rarely finds it possible to do in the cantonments. Night reserves various distractions for us. First, the rats.