At night the rats, with an unseasonable boldness, run up and down between the corrugated iron and the roof. One doesn't know if they're playing or fighting. These gallops on the metal awake us with a start.
A flash from my electric lamp and I discover an immense rat tearing across the room with a telephone message sent to me at the moment I retired.
Ménard and Foulu prepare the evening meal before the arrival of the post-sergeant. The little fireplace at the side blazes cheerfully and fills the dugout with the pleasant odor of burning wood.
Happiness is his who can relax completely after a rough day——
The post-sergeant arrives drenched, his package of letters and newspapers carefully wrapped. He seems ill at ease as if he finds himself in a palace.
"Ménard, give your friend a quart of pinard."
The paquet of letters for Captain Gunther is always very large. Many of them commence like this:
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart for having given us details of the death of our boy. We are proud of him."