Fortunately, correspondence is not forbidden, and the arrival of the mail from home is always a great event. It is Saturday evening in the chambrée, and Pitou has arrived at the end of the week without a reprimand. His heart feels the need of expansion, and he is laboriously writing out a letter to his betrothed, down in the country. "The sweat stands on his forehead.... It is, perhaps, his method of showing tenderness, for he is greatly moved. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, and can see that his heart has returned to the paternal dwelling in the province, in the familiar chamber, where his _promise_, Françoise, has come to spend the evening, and says to herself as she knits: "'At this moment, what is he doing, my Pierre?' "He is writing to thee, my poor Françoise; he has commenced a second letter, on beautiful lace paper ornamented with an immense rose, arranged like a transformation scene in a theatrical spectacle. When you unfold the sheet, the flower blooms out. It is a small prodigy of ingenuity, of open-work, and of coloration. This marvel resembles a symbolic cabbage; you look to see issue from it an infant newly born. "But Pitou ceases writing and looks toward me with anguish. What has happened to him? Finally, confiding, he comes to a decision, and, in a low voice: "'I say, thou, _embaume_, how dost thou write that?' "'_Embaume?_' "'Yes, _embaume_.... "The rose, may it _embaume_ [perfume] this letter...."' (With a sly smile): "'I am writing to my _payse_.... I am not sure.... She was with the Sisters three years.' "'Ah, well! embaume: E-m-b-a-u-m-e.' "'B-a-u.' "'M-e.' "'M-e.... _Merci, pays_.' "And he continues, without deigning to reply to the _loustic_ who has remarked our colloquy, and who calls to him: "'Hé! Pitou, say to thy people that thou hast lost the umbrella of the squad, and that they send thee a hundred sous to buy a new one with.'" At ten o'clock the bugle sounds: "Lights out!" and the dormitory sinks into darkness and slumber. "In the silence of the night, when sleep has already dulled all the caserne, a sound as gentle as a caress comes from outside, mysterious and far-away. The _clairon_ has transformed itself into something soft and cradling, and modulates tenderly an old, old song: "_Do, do do, petit soldat, Pense à ta bel', la plus belle des belles, Do, do do, petit soldat, Sois-lui fidèle, Si elle t'aime, aime-la._"