I carve the chicken; the corks fly, we drink like topers, we eat like ogres. The coffee steams in the cups; we gild it with cognac; my melancholy flies away, the punch kindles, the blue flames of the Kirschwasser leap in the salad bowl, the girls giggle, their hair in their eyes. Suddenly four strokes ring out slowly from the church tower. It is four o’clock. And the hospital! Good heavens, we had forgotten it! I turn pale. Francis looks at me in fright, we tear ourselves from the arms of our hostesses, we go out at double quick. “How to get in?” says the painter. Alas! we have no choice; we shall get there scarcely in time for supper. Let’s trust to the mercy of heaven and make for the great gate! We get there; we ring; the sister concierge is about to open the door for us and stands amazed. We salute her, and I say loud enough to be heard by her: “I say, do you know, they are not very amiable at that commissariat; the fat one specially received us only more or less civilly.” The sister breathes not a word. We run at a gallop for the messroom; it was time, I heard the voice of Sister Angèle who was distributing the rations. I went to bed as quickly as possible, I covered with my hand a spot my beauty had given me the length of my neck; the sister looks at me, finds in my eyes an unwonted sparkle, and asks with interest: “Are your pains worse?” I reassure her and reply: “On the contrary, sister, I am better; but this idleness and this imprisonment are killing me.” When I speak of the appalling ennui that is trying me, sunk in this company, in the midst of the country, far from my own people, she does not reply, but her lips close tight, her eyes take on an indefinable expression of melancholy and of pity. One day she said to me in a dry tone: “Oh, liberty’s worth nothing to you,” alluding to a conversation she had overheard between Francis and me, discussing the charming allurements of Parisian women; then she softened and added with her fascinating little moue: “You are really not serious, Mr. Soldier.” The next morning we agreed, the painter and I, that as soon as the soup was swallowed, we would scale the wall again. At the time appointed we prowl about the field; the door is closed. “Bast, worse luck!” says Francis, “_En avant!_” and he turns toward the great door of the hospital. I follow him. The sister in charge asks where we are going. “To the commissariat.” The door opens, we are outside.