But the calf was insensible to this harsh invitation. He continued to endure the flashes from our lights with a placid eye, and, drawn no doubt by Burette’s song, which seemed to him like familiar news, he began to bellow, waking up the whole stable, and the cows added their powerful voices to that of their offspring.... We slept no more that night.
The days which followed were not all exactly alike.
The lieutenant sent us word by a cyclist to come and see him in the lines and get the list of changes to be made among the men and horses.
We started at daylight and went in the company wagon as far as Froissy. When we got there, Morin told me that he knew a wonderful short cut which avoided the great détour by Éclusier, and led directly to the communication trench. Walking in the wet meadows where we sank in up to our ankles had little attraction for me. I preferred the hard highway and the towpath, but Morin knew the country and claimed that we would only have several hundred yards of bad walking and then we would reach a practicable path.
We walked more than an hour. The fog grew thicker and thicker, limiting our horizon to a few steps. There was never anyone in sight.
“My dear Morin,” I said, “if your short cut is as wonderful as you say, it must be known. But at the moment it seems somewhat deserted to me.”
Morin did not reply. There was no doubt that he wasn’t certain of his way, but he did not dare to admit his mistake.
The weather inclined one to melancholy.
We walked on in silence. The path was very narrow and we were obliged to walk one behind the other.
A sinister grumbling seemed to shatter the heavens above the fog.