Charensac, a big fellow, is particularly lively. Though no longer a cook, he is in possession of the latest news.
"General attack along the whole front," he explains.
Then he gives forth one of his war-cries—
"Oh dis! Oh dis! Oh dis! Oh dis!"
Charensac is fond of uttering cries devoid of meaning.
We walk to and fro in the trench. The artillery are preparing the attack, and the shells shriek past overhead. The enemy makes no reply. What a din! Impossible to think at all.
Verrier, who, acknowledged to be ill, had remained in the grotto all yesterday, comes rushing up, perspiring and out of breath.
"What are you doing here? This is not the time——"
"It is not the time to leave one's mates," he replies.
He seats himself on the ground and waits.