When he was on his last leave he spent six unrestrained days in innumerable drinking bouts in all the bars at La Cannebière, where he narrated his boasted deeds of prowess, which were probably much inferior to the real ones. Then, instead of going back, he waited for them to come and get him. He was arrested on the eighth day and brought back to the Corps by the provost. Marseille was not the least upset when the officer demanded the reasons for his delay, and replied: “I don’t like to travel alone. I like society, I do. So I have had a whole car to myself and my escort. And besides, I knew very well that the gendarmes wouldn’t come from Marseilles here without buying a drink, and they wouldn’t have the nerve to lap it all up without offering me some. I like the gendarmes. That may seem strange to you, but I do.” Marseille is a good singer and his number appears in all the company concerts. His throat is as clear as the sunny lights of La Corniche and L’Esterel, and he can render the final trills of the Neapolitan songs with the best. When he had finished his rapid observation he came back to our anxious group and spoke to the mess corporal: “You’ll be all right, _mon vieux_. You’ll get there.” And we all looked at him in open-mouthed surprise at such assurance. “Have you any news or an idea? Explain. Tell us something about it. Let us see.” “You’ll get there, as I told you. Don’t bother about those fellows over there. That’s my job. Watch me.” And to the lieutenant who was getting ready to question him: “You have a machine gun, haven’t you, Lieutenant.... Won’t you lend it to me ... just a minute? It’s a Saint Etienne. I know that.... I know them all.... They’re all the same.... And five belts with it to amuse the Boches for five minutes.... That’ll be enough for the cooks to get over.” We understood it all, and we laughed and admired him. Marseille rolled up the barrel of the machine gun and the belts in several thicknesses of canvas, tied a rope to it and attached the other end to his wrist. “Hold on to the package so that it won’t make trouble on the stones, and when I pull on the rope twice, let it come.” And he crawled out of the trench and slid down towards the ruined hut. We waited anxiously the full ten minutes. We watched the cord unroll with varying emotions. It stopped, stood still, immovable. Has he arrived? Then we felt the two jerks, and the lieutenant let the heavy package slide, and it got mixed up in the stakes, rocks, and gullies, and made such a metallic noise that it could not help attracting the Boche’s attention. And it had an effect. The enemy believed that we were making some sort of a movement, and launched in our direction a heavy fusillade which we refrained from answering. Again ten minutes passed ... they were interminable. Then suddenly came the machine gun ... ours ... Marseille’s.