In fact, he does know how to live. Always on the go, doing little services for every one in turn, swapping for chocolate the cigars which are given him, reselling this chocolate retail, buying with the money packets of tobacco and cigarettes, which he hawks for halfpennies in the dark passage outside the kitchen—he will find his way back to the valley of Auge with a nest-egg. But I fancy he will get rid of some of it on the way. “Just think of it, you fellows,” he frequently exclaims. “‘Mézidon, fifty minutes’ stop!’ I tumble to the ground. I put away the first bottle of Calvados [cider brandy] I can get hold of. Then, ‘Lisieux, fifty minutes’ stop!’ Won’t it be splendid to get a little good Norman stuff into one’s guts, after the ditch-water of Fort Orff! One will get home to the missus thoroughly cheerful.” This Marie is a delight to me. Our philosophies differ considerably. He has no pity, he says, for lame ducks. But he has such keen vision, he is so spirited and plain-spoken, and he is so original in his methods of expression, that he is above criticism. While Lambert and the charcoal-burner (his name is Deschênes and he has been through two campaigns in Morocco) are apportioning for the stoves the spoils of Marie’s raid, I empty on to the table the second of my haversacks. I wash and shave. Marie pours me out half a pint of steaming coffee. “_Ja, ja_,” he says, as he adds a lump of sugar, smiling his mischievous and knowing smile. _Ja_, in his vocabulary, signifies everything that is good; _nichts_, on the other hand, denotes everything that is bad. This done, he returns to the plutonic region. Then, in the blessed solitude of the “salon,” by the pale and smoky light of the distant lamp and of the dawn, I withdraw from the manuscript haversack the packet about which I fancy I have been dreaming all night. You will think me very materialistic, I fear. But as you read, bear in mind that I am extremely well, that I am working as hard as usual, and that my appetite, with which you are acquainted, has to be satisfied here with a daily allowance that in Paris would barely have sufficed for a single meal. It was Fritz Magen, the _Gefreiter_, the leading private of our Bavarian guard, who gave me this parcel yesterday evening. I had no thought of such a windfall. In the same mood as any other prisoner, I was waiting like the rest in No. 17 at the foot of my “bed” for the brisk appearance in the casemate of the men to take the roll-call. It is half-past eight. Suddenly the door opens. “The roll-call,” bellows Dutrex, bursting in gustily, followed by the _Feldwebel_ and the lantern-bearer. Dutrex rapidly counts us. “_Zweiundzwanzig_,” he announces to the _Feldwebel_. “Twenty-two.” He shakes me by the hand, saying: “_Gute Nacht, mein Freund; schlafe wohl._” The round passes on.