But even Ploss has his good hours. French lightness of heart is able from time to time to exert its charm over this hard Franconian noddle. His surly air passes off. With a brisk gesture he pushes his greasy _Mütze_ back over the nape of his neck. His brown tuft of hair makes its appearance, giving him an engaging and almost sportive air. During these calms, Davit, the Hercules cook, can with impunity seize the quartermaster, wrestle with him, and make as if to throw him head-first into a boiling cauldron. The paunchy cook of No. 42, when the herrings are being distributed, can then, under Ploss’ very eyes, sneak a good-sized “Bismarck” and stuff it into the pocket of his smock, with the tail sticking out. But beware! The quartermaster’s ordinary temper will suddenly return, and the prisoner with whom he has just been laughing will find himself sentenced to three days’ cells simply for having kept up the game for a second after the eclipse. Ploss is then capable of making allegations likely to bring a man before a firing squad. He will say, for example, “Prisoner X attempted to kill me by striking me on the head with a ladle.” * * * * * What a wonderful thing is this French light-heartedness! Heavy-witted northerners term it levity when they should speak of it as vitality. These little Frenchmen! To-day you see them sad at heart. The weather is grey; a languorous humidity prevails which seems to reduce the scale of the landscape and to make the noises draw nearer. We hear the roar of the trains in the plain, trains moving westwards, towards France. Those afoot walk as in a dream; many never leave their palliasses. The men from Provence are thinking of the sunshine; the Parisians recall the joyous meetings of Saturday evening when work is done; the Bretons listen in imagination to the heavy, rhythmical sound of the great surges breaking at the foot of the native cliff. Every one has “the hump.” Suddenly comes the sound of singing from the corridors. “They are singing! Have the letters come?” One and all rush to be first at the main gate, close to the _Kommandantur_, beneath the gloomy arch. There is coming and going and much talk. “Is it true that there are lots of letters?”—“Two or three hundred, so d’Arnoult says!”—“What luck! When shall we get them?”—“Oh, the sorting will take some time.” The procession to the kitchens is animated. The hope of being about to receive a letter has eased the nervous tension.