Reymond, Verrier and myself have obtained a pass for Langres. Lunch at the hotel; napkins and tablecloth. What luxury! The young lady who serves us is very polite. We enter various shops to purchase chocolate, wax candles, writing-paper, blacking, a lantern and some of Molière's plays to read aloud in the loft.
We return to Humes at six o'clock, shouting out songs at the top of our voice as the rain comes pouring down.
Monday, 17th August.
Five hundred men have been appointed to make up a detachment which is to hold itself in readiness to leave for the front at a minute's notice. My name is on the list, which includes men of the youngest classes and volunteers. It forms the contingent complement.
We are fitted out from head to foot. First, we receive a blue muff with which each man immediately covers his képi. This is the rallying sign. Out in the streets, comrades who see us wearing a blue képi say—
"Ah! So you are one of the complement?"
We answer, "Yes," in a tone of modest indifference ill concealed by a big dose of vanity.
A score of times every day we receive the order: "Those belonging to the contingent complement are wanted with everything they have at the office."
There we receive small packets of provisions, such as coffee, sugar, condensed soup; on another occasion, a musette; then again a can, leathern straps, cartridges; for each separate article of our equipment a special journey is necessary.