Paradis informs us that he knows all about cafes. On Sundays formerly, he frequented cafes as beautiful as this one and even more beautiful. Only, he explains, that was a long time ago, and he has lost the flavor that they've got. He indicates a little enameled wash-hand basin hanging on the wall and decorated with flowers: "There's where one can wash his hands." We steer politely towards the basin. Volpatte signs to Paradis to turn the tap, and says, "Set the waterworks going!" Then all six of us enter the saloon, whose circumference is already adorned with customers, and install ourselves at a table. "We'll have six currant-vermouths, shall we?" "We could very easily get used to it again, after all," they repeat. Some civilians leave their places and come near us. They whisper, "They've all got the Croix de Guerre, Adolphe, you see---"--"Those are real poilus!" Our comrades overhear, and now they only talk among themselves abstractedly, with their ears elsewhere, and an unconscious air of importance appears. A moment later, the man and woman from whom the remarks proceeded lean towards us with their elbows on the white marble and question us: "Life in the trenches, it's very rough, isn't it?" "Er--yes--well, of course, it isn't always pleasant." "What splendid physical and moral endurance you have! In the end you get used to the life, don't you?" "Why, yes, of course, one gets used to it--one gets used to it all right." "All the same, it's a terrible existence--and the suffering!" murmurs the lady, turning over the leaves of an illustrated paper which displays gloomy pictures of destruction. "They ought not to publish these things, Adolphe, about the dirt and the vermin and the fatigues! Brave as you are, you must be unhappy?" Volpatte, to whom she speaks, blushes. He is ashamed of the misery whence he comes, whither he must return. He lowers his head and lies, perhaps without realizing the extent of his mendacity: "No, after all, we're not unhappy, it isn't so terrible as all that!" The lady is of the same opinion. "I know," she says, "there are compensations! How superb a charge must be, eh? All those masses of men advancing like they do in a holiday procession, and the trumpets playing a rousing air in the fields! And the dear little soldiers that can't be held back and shouting, 'Vive la France!' and even laughing as they die! Ah! we others, we're not in honor's way like you are. My husband is a clerk at the Prefecture, and just now he's got a holiday to treat his rheumatism." "I should very much have liked to be a soldier," said the gentleman, "but I've no luck. The head of my office can't get on without me."