Then the woman stole out, and when she returned she was escorting five or six of the neighbouring villagers. And all these women, too, watched us laughing, and exclaimed in astonishment and chorus at this phenomenal spectacle--two poor devils so far scorned by death; two soldiers of the great war who had fought often, had suffered much, delirious now with happiness, laughing with the abandonment of children because they were sleeping for that one night in a bed! _Wednesday, September 30th._ A happy party are we, up above Amblonville valley. A tempered sun, a sky intensely blue, with a few little white clouds idling by. Near me on a slope the men are digging a trench; I have brought them almost up to a summit where clay gives way to chalk. Their task is easy; the picks loosen huge flakes of soft stone which scarcely adhere to each other, and which part at a single stroke. Earth such as this does not blunt or spoil the tools, and the work proceeds without pause. It is not like clay which sticks whatever one may do, compelling one constantly to scrape pick and shovel with a knife or a sharp stone. Far away below, in a meadow beside a stream, the cooks have lit their fires. About _pots-au-feu_ which crown the flames are gathered a few men in blue and red. The whole picture is so clear-cut and distinct that by concentrating my attention I am able to recognize each one of these pigmy-like men. A few yards from the stream, and because camp-buckets are heavy to carry when they are full of water, Lebret is holding his particular assizes. The Adjutant is squatting close to the flame, and Gendre, stripped of his equipment, and in his vest, is balancing himself and walking on his hands. In the middle of the meadow, I can easily distinguish the cooks of my section. The man who is kneeling down and puffing at the green wood and half vanishing from time to time in the smoke, is Pinard, hairy among the most hairy in the company; Pinard, who grumbles incessantly, but who always works like any other four men put together. That other, bending so solicitously over certain dishes, is Fillot, the fatigue corporal, inspecting some particularly choice morsel which he has carefully placed aside before the distribution of rations, as every corporal of ordinary intelligence and respectful of traditions, does do. Further to the right, on the other side of the road which descends from our hill to rejoin the main road, the Captain is sitting on an old tree-trunk and drawing designs in the dust with the point of his lance, chatting at the same time with the doctor, who is standing near him. Behind them lies an overturned, rusty plough.