On reaching it, a woman dressed in black, and with a melancholy air, showed us to his room, at the end of a long corridor. We saw that the door was half open. We stopped to listen to Picart's deep voice singing his favourite piece to the tune of 'The Curé de Pomponne':
'Ah! tu t'en souviendras, la-ri-ra,
Du départ de Boulogne!'
Great was our surprise at seeing him with a face as white as snow, a mask of skin covering his whole face. He told us about his accident, speaking of himself as a raw recruit, an old stupid. 'Listen, mon pays,' he said. 'It was just like the musket-shot in the wood the night of November 23rd. I see I am good for nothing. This miserable campaign has done for me. See,' he continued, 'if something horrible doesn't happen to me.' So saying, he laid hold of a bottle of gin that was on the table, and taking three cups from the chimney-piece, filled them, to drink, as he said, to our safe arrival. 'Look here,' he said: 'we will spend the day together, and I will invite you to dinner.'
He at once called the woman, who came in weeping. I asked Picart what was the matter with her, and he replied that an uncle of hers had been buried that morning, an old bachelor, a coaster or privateer, very rich, as it seemed, and that there were great doings in the house. He had been invited, and for that reason he had invited us too, as there would be noisettes à croquer. But on second thoughts, he said that it would be much better to have the dinner brought to his room than to spend our time with a heap of blubbering creatures who were pretending grief—the usual result of the death of a rich uncle who had something to leave. He told the woman he should not be able to dine with her, on account of friends having come to see him; and, besides, he was so sensitive he should do nothing but weep. So saying, he pretended to wipe away a tear. The woman began to cry again, and at such a comedy we were obliged to cover our faces with our handkerchiefs so as not to burst with laughter. The good woman thought that we were all crying, and called us first-rate fellows, saying we should be served at once. On this she withdrew, and two female servants brought us dinner. There were so many things we couldn't have eaten them in three days.
As may be imagined, our dinner was of the gayest; still, when we remembered our miseries, the fate of those friends whom we had seen perish, and others who had disappeared, we grew sad and thoughtful.
Night was coming on, and we were still smoking and drinking, when the mistress of the house came in to tell us that they were waiting for us to have their coffee. She led the way, and after a good many turnings we reached a large room, Grangier in front, I second; Picart had stayed behind. On entering, we saw a long table, well lighted by several candles. Around it were fourteen women, more or less old, and all dressed in black. In front of each was a cup, a glass, a long clay pipe and tobacco, for in this country almost all the women smoke, particularly the sailors' wives. The remainder of the table was furnished with bottles of Rhine wine and Dantzig gin.
Picart had not yet come in; we thought he did not dare put in an appearance because of his face. But suddenly we saw a movement among the women; they all shrieked, and looked towards the door. It was old Picart, with his mask of white skin muffled in his cloak of the same colour, a cap of black Russian fox on his head, and smoking a meerschaum pipe with a long tube, which he carried gravely in his right hand; the cap and the pipe belonged to the deceased. Passing down the corridor, he had seen them hanging up in the dead man's room, and had taken them for a joke. Hence the fright of the women, who had taken him for the dead man coming to his own wake. They begged Picart to accept the cap and pipe, as a reward for the tears he had shed that morning, before the mistress of the house.
The conversation grew livelier and livelier, for all the women smoked and drank like troopers. Soon one could not make one's self heard.
Before breaking up a psalm was sung, and a prayer said for the repose of the dead man's soul; it was all sung and said with much unction, and we took part silently.
Afterwards they left us, wishing us good-evening; it was snowing and blowing a furious gale, so we decided to sleep at our old comrade's. There was plenty of straw and a warm room, and more we did not want.