Then the door opens creakingly. Pouf!... What a smell! It seems to be compounded of skim-milk, rats, perspiration, and other indescribable things. It is sharp and nauseous, and quite turns me. What on earth can smell so vilely? All at once the stench revives an old memory; brings back to my mind the picture of one of the Boche "assistant's" rooms at the Lakanal Lyceum. I used to go there from time to time to wile away an hour or so, and, at the same time, to acquire fluency in his language. This was in the course of a remarkably hot summer, and he used to take off his coat and vest and put himself at his ease, so that when I opened the door that same stench struck me in the face, seized me by the throat, as it were. He used to grin, half of his fatuous face hidden by tortoise-shell spectacles and greet me with his heavy, guttural tones: "_Mon Ongle Penchamin!_ Splendeed, splendeed! And so teepigally Vrench!" I remember I used to push my chair as far back as possible, until, in fact, my back was against the wall, and finish up by saying: "Let us go out into the park, shall we? We shall be able to breathe better out there than here." Ah, well! Destiny decrees that I shall now sleep amidst this oppressive smell of Germans, stretched out on the hay in which they have sheltered. Bah!... It's a dear price to pay for recovery of possession! "Pannechon! What on earth's this?" I seize the corner of a piece of cloth protruding from the straw. I pull it out and find it to be a greyish-green mantle with a red collar. "Pannechon, pitch that outside!" I stretch myself out, cover myself with my greatcoat and close my eyes. Hullo! What is this poking my side! I thrust my hand into the hay and feel something hard with many corners. Patient investigation reveals a lacquered toilet-box with a mirror under the lid, a cheap and nasty gewgaw. "Pannechon! Pitch that out too." Sleep now. No, not yet! Just one more find--a tin of metal polish. Happily it is the last. I draw my greatcoat well up over my eyes and stretch myself out luxuriously. It is warm, it is good, and there is nothing at all to grumble at. Until to-morrow, and then the Boches! _Monday, September 14th._ It is raining, of course. The march beneath this sad and watery sky is going to be a detestable one. I resign myself in advance to a day of saturation.