"Don't I look it?" They sat at the top of the steps again; the man took out bits of wet glass dripping red wine from his little bag, swearing all the while. "I was bringing it to the little captain. He's a nice little old chap, the little captain, and he loves good wine." "Bordeaux?" "Can't you smell it? It's Medoc, 1900, from my own vines.... Look, taste it, there's still a little." He held up the neck of the bottle and Martin took a sip. The artilleryman drank the rest of it, twisted his long moustaches and heaved a deep sigh. "Go there, my poor good old wine." He threw the remnants of the bottle into the underbrush. Shrapnel burst a little down the road. "Oh, this is a dirty business! I am a Gascon.... I like to live." He put a dirty brown hand on Martin's arm. "How old do you think I am?" "Thirty-five." "I am twenty-four. Look at the picture." From a tattered black note-book held together by an elastic band he pulled a snapshot of a jolly-looking young man with a fleshy face and his hands tucked into the top of a wide, tightly-wound sash. He looked at the picture, smiling and tugging at one of his long moustaches. "Then I was twenty. It's the war." He shrugged his shoulders and put the picture carefully back into his inside pocket. "Oh, it's idiotic!" "You must have had a tough time." "It's just that people aren't meant for this sort of thing," said the artilleryman quietly. "You don't get accustomed. The more you see the worse it is. Then you end by going crazy. Oh, it's idiotic!" "How did you find things at home?" "Oh, at home! Oh, what do I care about that now? They get on without you.... But we used to know how to live, we Gascons. We worked so hard on the vines and on the fruit-trees, and we kept a horse and carriage. I had the best-looking rig in the department. Sunday it was fun; we'd play bowls and I'd ride about with my wife. Oh, she was nice in those days! She was young and fat and laughed all the time. She was something a man could put his arms around, she was. We'd go out in my rig. It was click-clack of the whip in the air and off we were in the broad road.... Sacred name of a pig, that one was close.... And the Marquis of Montmarieul had a rig, too, but not so good as mine, and my horse would always pass his in the road. Oh, it was funny, and he'd look so sour to have common people like us pass him in the road.... Boom, there's another.... And the Marquis now is nicely embusqué in the automobile service. He is stationed at Versailles.... And look at me.... But what do I care about all that now?" "But after the war ..." "After the war?" He spat savagely on the first step of the dugout. "They learn to get on without you." "But we'll be free to do as we please." "We'll never forget." "I shall go to Spain ..." A piece of shrapnel ripped past Martin's ear, cutting off the sentence.