"The pump, the pump! There's a camp bucket here!..." The pump creaks; the bucket fills; a steady stream is directed on the flames. Smoke swirls up in dense, choking clouds; we cough so violently that we almost vomit. "The door! Shut the door!" What idiot has just come in? There came a violent gust of air at the very moment when we were getting the fire under. "Hullo!" says a voice. "What's all this about? You're making a bit of a hullabaloo, aren't you?" It is Porchon. "Come along, old man," I cry. "You must help if you wish to sleep here to-night. Pump, pump--like the devil!" And the four of us fly about as madly as devils in holy water. The pump nearly bursts itself; we wallow in a black flood and tread on each other's toes; but little by little the clouds of smoke die away, the air becomes breathable, our eyes cease to run. "Bring the candle from that table," I say to Pannechon, "and let's have a look at the damage." The inquiry is short. There is no stonework behind the chimney-piece. One side of it formed the back of a cupboard with wooden doors, which was used for drying linen. The side had cracked and the flames had got through and set fire to the cupboard doors. What about the linen inside? Has the worst happened? "Pannechon, our linen?" Pannechon smiles, Pannechon is well pleased with himself. "Ah! Lieutenant, I'm a smart fellow. I had just got it away when the fire broke out. It was all aired--ah, no, there was an old pair of socks which were still wet, so I left them. Yes, there they are--socks no longer, but cinders! It must have been those that smothered us, together with a bundle of rags left at the bottom." So everything is all right then. Porchon approaches the bed and caresses the eiderdown. "Ah! old friend, but that was a narrow escape," he says affectionately. "You shall wrap us up snugly shortly." Then raising his voice, he addresses me: "Come along, it is time to mess. Do not forget that I bought some pork yesterday evening from that old man back in the valley. There are also some apple fritters, and still one more of Presle's famous fowls." _Saturday, October 3rd._ Letters at last! Forty letters at once! And the postman tells me there are still others to follow! I plunge into the mass. I read voraciously, until I am a being intoxicated. I take them from the heap, just as they come to hand, slit the envelope open with my finger, and absorb the contents of the whole letter at once. How short a time it takes, after all, to read forty letters! Then I re-read them slowly, line by line, as one sips an exquisite liqueur of whose bouquet one's palate never tires. My letters no longer swamp me; I select now, guided by a sure instinct.