He had given me his chair, and was sitting upon the wood of the smaller platform. He was a young fellow of twenty-five, with regular features, blue eyes, and fair hair cut very short. A fine, downy growth on his rosy cheeks made him look younger. I know little about him. He told me that he lived near Munich, forty kilometres from here. One day when he saw me at work, your photograph made him break his reserve for a moment. “Is that your _Geliebte_?” “Yes.” “For my part, I also was about to be betrothed. But the war has dashed my hopes.” He said no more. I lacked courage to question him. I understood from the first that this handsome fellow, born for happiness, harboured a secret grief. Yesterday evening we were for the most part silent. Through the loopholes came the last rays of the setting sun, lighting up the orderly row of rifles in the arm-rack. In the shadow, on the great platform which filled half the room, two Landwehr men were sleeping. My friend Foch, the infantry sergeant, seated on a broached cask, was draining mugs of beer amid a noisy circle of Bavarians. In our corner a pensive peace reigned. My host was preparing me a slice of bread spread with minced meat. I sipped my beer slowly, after the French manner. Then he drew from his haversack a long and thin cigar, pierced by a straw. Handing it to me, he said: “Smoke that, for you like strong tobacco. It is an Austrian cigar, sent me from home.” We said hardly anything more. He speaks but little French, and my German is not very good. All that we knew was that we were happy to be there together. He has gone now. In four or five days he will be under fire once more. This is the feast day of the Queen of Bavaria, the _Theresientag_. “Did you hear the bells?” asked Durupt, when I entered the kitchen. “The sound came from every quarter this morning. It gave me an uneasy feeling. As I passed through Coblenz they were ringing madly for Manonviller.” When remounting the slopes I had indeed heard the bells, and had noted with surprise that the blue-and-white Bavarian standard was floating over the fort; but meeting Guido outside room 32, I learned from him that it was the _Theresientag_ and I was therefore able to reassure Durupt. The vegetables were now being prepared. “No more news, no more papers, no more enthusiasm—it suggests the deluge!” says Labassan, a light-hearted fellow, all goitre and paunch, ever playing the fool, nicknamed l’Asticot (the maggot). He peels his potato with inimitable gestures which set the whole circle in fits. Among them is Bonin, a Parisian, of the 31st of the line, the 31st half-brigade of Valmy, my regiment. On August 24th, at Longuyon in Meurthe-et-Moselle, he was wounded in the face, a bullet passing in at one cheek and out at the other. I am very fond of this little workman of the Marais quarter; his clear and quiet eyes radiate patriotism and good sense.