The place of assembly is a dimly-lit kitchen. At one end, the yellow flame of a candle set the shadows dancing on the walls. A cook, bare of arms and grimy of paws, fingers and handles some meat as if he were kneading dough. A second, with a pipe between his teeth, skims the _pot-au-feu_ whilst expectorating into the cinders. He raises towards me a face like that of a thick-lipped faun; his eyes are very clear, but unintelligent and slow-moving. The beginnings of a beard decorate his chin with a few odd hairs as stiff as bristles. It is he who receives me in a voice drawling and muffled--his mouth, it seems, is chock-full of macaroni. One after the other the officers enter. There is the Captain and the Saint-Maixentian, as well as a newly-commissioned cadet from Saint Cyr, bony of face, nose powerful, and altogether a good sort, I find, who, like myself, has just come from the depot. The Captain of the 8th is a short, well-built, fair man, refined, meticulously well-groomed, with a smile that reveals his teeth, and a soft voice which he modulates beautifully. A lieutenant, powerfully built ... (Censored) ... whose nose descends into his spoon ... (Censored) ... regales us on vapid obscenities. Finally, there is a second-lieutenant, slender and delicate, dark, with a very boyish face, intelligent yet artless. Dinner proceeds rather gloomily. The two captains exchange anecdotes concerning Morocco, or ready-made stories gleaned in the camps regarding fair women. Once more I plunge through the mud. And I reflect that it would be foolish in the extreme not to profit by this stay in a village by trying to find a bed in which to pass the night. As a result, I ultimately slip between two crumpled sheets beside a farmer of fifty or so, who breathes heavily and smells strongly. Nevertheless I sleep, and soundly too! II THE CROSSING OF THE MEUSE _Friday, August 28th._ Four o'clock in the morning. We ascend to the top of a stony road. The night mists are still drifting. The whole regiment falls in near the village, in an orchard bounded by hedges. And there a monocled major in a sing-song voice reads aloud a stirring proclamation: it is the Colonel's funeral oration, filled with vehement exhortations, and a poem of Déroulède's to finish up with. Much simpler and more touching is the sight of the soldiers presenting arms, and all the officers with their swords at the salute. On the summit of a wind-swept crest, we dig trenches deep enough to accommodate men standing erect. I inhale the fresh air greedily, delighted to be out in the sunshine and happy, while my men dig away with their picks and throw shovelfuls of earth over the parapet.