The light of two candles stuck in bottles showed us the table in the darkness and we spread out our dinner things anew.
Above was the bombardment in all its intensity.
Shots landed in the road level with our air-hole, which, as a provision against such an occurrence, had long since been stuffed with sandbags.
We heard things falling!
“Mince! what are they offering us for Easter eggs?”
This ready joke made us laugh, and we forgot the tragedy of the hour. In the heady anesthesia of real Pommard, and not christened “Pommard” for use at the front, but which had a real Burgundian bouquet, we forgot that the shells were raging in all their fury above us.
The shadow of a man appeared at the entrance to the cellar. Illuminated by the wavering yellow lights of our candles, it stood out in sharp contrast in the darkness of the staircase.
“Is the margis here?... Margis, the lieutenant says you are to bring all the horses at once to the gulley in the Caix woods and shelter them from the bombardment.”
“All right, I’m coming. Go on, Dedouche, pour out another glass of Pommard. I’ll take my dessert in my pocket.”
I picked up my helmet, mask and cane and was ready to go, as I listened through the vaults and hoped for a let-up in the storm.