And the women of Marseilles! They are the quintessence of France, revivified by the air of the Mediterranean. Just think, _mon cher_, of a villa perched in the pines, facing the sea, in the valley of L’Oriol, with a brunette that I know, ...! ...! “Oh, I forget, I must present you to the other gentlemen. Come.” We emerge from the sap and come out in broad daylight. In a crater organized in the expectation of a probable counter attack, guarded by the strongest men of the section, twelve German prisoners are stretched out in the mud. Some of them stand up automatically at the appearance of an officer and assume a rigid military attitude. “Look at that rabble with their blessed faces like professors of natural history or like sacristans mumbling their prayers. Who would think to look at them that they are such cynical brutes?” “But I forgot. You speak German!... Try and get something out of them.” So I ask them where they come from. No one replies. Their eyes remain hostile and timid and full of fear. They distrust one another; informing is the common practice in their ranks. I look at one in particular, and, taking him by the arm, “_Dü! wohen bist dü dann?_” “_Aus München...._” From Munich. Munich! I passed the best days of my youth there. Its splendid life, the magic of its lakes, the first iridescent snows of the Tyrol reflecting in their dark waters, the intoxication of its music, Munich! the city of my dreams! The mystic grayish tints of the inns more smoky even than those of Auerbach but lighter, the impressive harmony of the statues, its incomparable museums, the June evenings on the Isar and the blue sunsets of the Propylées. Munich! And this man in rags, this tatterdemalion speaks to me of Munich. “Well, Margis, are you wandering?” “Yes, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact I was woolgathering.” And I come back to cruel reality. “Since you must return to the brigade at once, you can take this crowd to the provost. I’ll give you four men. That will be enough.” “All right, Lieutenant, but I’ll not guarantee to deliver them whole. It’s a bad neighborhood. It rains shells.” He looks at them and they are ready. All they have to do is to group themselves. “Go ahead, au revoir,—and a safe return.” “_Nun jetz Vorwaerts!_” We go back along the road I came by this morning. The artillery fire has let up a little. As far as the crossing of the roads from Biaches to Herbècourt, we march along without much risk, but beyond there we are taken anew by a crossfire from the batteries of Barleux and Hem, and by the fire of a cursed machine gun. It seems to be hidden in the ruins of Flaucourt, but our artillery has not been able to spot it yet and silence it. My twelve prisoners march along ahead silently with bowed shoulders. They understand that they must march along peacefully at the same pace as the four big fellows who form the escort, and that once out of this zone their lives are saved.