The rats descended from the dove-cote in a dense horde and made incursions on our haversacks, in mad gallops over our bed clothes—gigantic rats with interminable tails! They used the open space between the beds as their lists and had real battles, biting, crying and moaning. The routed fugitives jumped over Morin’s body to get to shelter and he shivered in terror. Burette decided to try extreme measures, for hunting them with shoes has no effect. So he begins to sing one of the most beautiful tunes in his repertoire called “A Montparnasse.” It must have thirty verses, all ending in an interminable “nasse ... nasse ... nasse.” It seems that it was a triumph of the boulevards, and no true lover of songs should be ignorant of it. Very possibly. The rats must have shared my opinion, however, for they seemed to like the great triumph of the boulevards only moderately, but they remained quiet while the song lasted. That song had another virtue, too. It put me to sleep and Burette as well. His voice dragged more and more, and grew more feeble, when a terrible cry pierced the night. Morin shouted in terror. We jumped for our electric lamps. Their dim rays brighten the darkness. Above Morin’s head, through a hole in the mud wall which separates us from the neighboring stable, a calf—a young calf—gracious and smiling, has stuck his great red head, and has imprinted a caress on the face of our sleeping friend with his milky tongue. “The salaud! He has bitten me,” grumbled Morin, wiping off the dribble which stuck to his face. “Get out, animal.” But the calf was insensible to this harsh invitation. He continued to endure the flashes from our lights with a placid eye, and, drawn no doubt by Burette’s song, which seemed to him like familiar news, he began to bellow, waking up the whole stable, and the cows added their powerful voices to that of their offspring.... We slept no more that night. * * * * * The days which followed were not all exactly alike. The lieutenant sent us word by a cyclist to come and see him in the lines and get the list of changes to be made among the men and horses. We started at daylight and went in the company wagon as far as Froissy. When we got there, Morin told me that he knew a wonderful short cut which avoided the great détour by Éclusier, and led directly to the communication trench. Walking in the wet meadows where we sank in up to our ankles had little attraction for me. I preferred the hard highway and the towpath, but Morin knew the country and claimed that we would only have several hundred yards of bad walking and then we would reach a practicable path. We walked more than an hour. The fog grew thicker and thicker, limiting our horizon to a few steps. There was never anyone in sight. “My dear Morin,” I said, “if your short cut is as wonderful as you say, it must be known. But at the moment it seems somewhat deserted to me.”