I except Breton, the quartermaster-sergeant, who, on the contrary, sided with us. We must needs do him justice for the care and cleverness with which he accomplished his task of commanding No. 4 platoon where Hourcade seconded him badly, and keeping the books of the whole company under the captain's supervision. Sturdy and square-shouldered, it was good to see him going off with the camp material towards the end of a long halt. He nearly always succeeded in hunting out suitable sites. His responsibility and the country life suited him. He no doubt looked forward to the military medal, and the sergeant-major's stripe, at the end of this venture. Plucky under fire, and as much on the spot there as elsewhere, he always had his men well in hand. He had been won over by our conduct under fire. During his rare leisure moments, he would willingly come and joke in our little group, which he dubbed "The Bachelors' Club." The only trouble was that with him you had to drink, drink, drink, the whole time. No drunkenness, but good hard drinking! We refused to join him for the first few days, but he called us molly-coddles, and almost took offence. De Valpic advised us to accept. We took turns to treat each other, here a pint, there a glass. After that it was a case of friendship till death, between him and us. But the Humel-Playoust "lot"! Ravelli might rightly be classed with them now. I have spoken of the complete transformation which had been effected in him. It was doubtful whether the _poilus_ ever heard the sound of his voice. Playoust had taken possession of him, getting hold of him through his weaknesses, flattering his Corsican vanity, but making a laughing-stock of him, though he was too stupid to see it. They never left each other, and were on the most familiar terms. These days, so fertile in surprises, had completely deranged the sergeant-major who had always been rather shaky in the upper storey. He saw spies everywhere--in all the old women, and priests, disguises which had as a matter of fact been made use of. Playoust spurred him on, for the amusement of the onlookers. The game was assuming alarming proportions. Ravelli, at Hazaumont, went to find the commanding officer, and handed over a list of suspects to him, which had been drawn slyly, by the other--all the parish priests in the neighbourhood! The captain was good-natured; he merely shook the poor sergeant-major: "I shall keep my eye on you, my lad!" Later on, on the evening of "Beauclair," Ravelli only just missed throwing the whole division into a panic by yelling "The Uhlans!" Trouble might have come of it. There was some question of reducing him to the ranks. His last chance of obtaining officer's rank was lost then. But in spite of it he still continued to pin all his faith to Playoust. His ears buzzed, and he was continually asking: "Is that firing, that we hear?" "Exactly." And the wretch pointed out some fleecy clouds in the sky. "Look there. Shells bursting!"