"Nom de Dieu! I catch you at it! You carry away and drink my prune brandy while your lieutenant is shelled in bed. To-morrow you will go into the first-line trenches, misérable—to the trenches, you understand me——"
I read in his mocking eyes with his half-penitent air:
"I'm easy about it, you like my chicken fricassée too well."
A REGAL DINNER, VERDUN.
March, 1916.
"Habert, we have as guests to-night, two colonels! Dinner on the table at seven o'clock and let everything be perfect.
"Your assistant and yourself will be in white from head to foot: breeches, jacket, socks, shoes and white gloves."
"Good, lieutenant."
"That is not all—wait before you speak—rice powder on your hair, so that it will all be regal—your hair well combed. Have you got a comb?"
"Yes, lieutenant."