Directly we got to our quarters, we saw two men detach themselves from the group standing there. Two more of the old lot, two school-teachers.... Guillaumin whispered their names to me--Descroix, a squat, red-haired chap, with an imperial and a clumsy way of walking; and Humel, a small slight man with a thin pale face, and a rather cunning expression. We greeted one another cordially, pretending to congratulate ourselves on the lucky chance. They lost no time in addressing us in the most familiar terms, and we put on no side. Conversation soon began to lag, however, as we lacked any interests in common. Guillaumin suddenly went off. He brought back a man named De Valpic to introduce to us. He was tall and slim and distinguished-looking with a gentle, sad expression. As he was already in uniform the company sergeant-major, who was passing, requisitioned him. When he had gone, we asked Guillaumin who he was. "Oh, you know the De Valpics--the historical ones! He is the ambassador's nephew. I met him in camp at Mailly, and he asked me to go and see him--A mansion in the Rue de Grenelle, with a courtyard of sixty yards. But quite unspoilt, a very good sort, you'll see!" "He'd better not give himself airs here!" said Descroix. He and Humel did not seem in the least disposed to make friends with the new-comer. Reservists kept on arriving in an uninterrupted string, their rejoining orders in their hands. "Here are the people we're going to get killed with," Guillaumin said. "What sort do they look?" Beaucerons for the most part, reserved, obstinate, weather-beaten beings, who did not talk much. When they did it was with a guttural accent. I was able to identify the faces of a certain number of worthy farmers, the Simeons and Gaudéreaux whom I had noticed during my year's services. From a distance they all seemed our elders, with their scored faces, and their bodies bent and thickened by the rough work in the fields. A minority of Parisians were making four times more noise than the others. I raised my eyebrows. I had caught sight of Judsi with his queer clown's face--a bad stock--and further on, Lamalou, a huge fellow with a weakness for the fair sex, who had come back from the punishment battalions in Africa; a good sort, but terrible when he had been drinking. "The deuce!" I said to Guillaumin. "We've got some bad hats." "They make the best soldiers!" Judsi was raising roars of laughter by handing round the hat, his hat, an extraordinary object which he must have picked up for fun on the high road. "Help a pore man!" He humbugged: Didn't his pals agree that it was just the time to go and fetch a few kilos of red wine? Who knew whether they wouldn't have kicked the bucket by to-morrow. He ended by collecting about four francs. He went off and came back in ten minutes' time carrying seven or eight bottles.