"At first the mistress refused to lodge six soldiers. But I talked her round. Besides, I gave her to understand that you were real gentlemen."
The natives of the South of France may be braggarts; anyhow, this one from the Franche-Comté could easily give them points. If mention is made of a farmer's wife or even of some lady of the manor within a radius of ten leagues, Jules begins to cluck like a hen, to slap his hands on his thighs, and with appropriate gestures he gives us to understand that he knows the lady in question very well indeed.
In his own district he was attached to a farm, and in his leisure hours he most certainly gave himself up to poaching.
Not on account of the war will he abandon his petty occupations. No, indeed, something must be done to break the monotony of trench life.
From time to time, in spite of gendarmes and regulations, Jules trips over to Soissons. He returns with an entire bazaar in his musettes.
"I sell it all again, you know, at cost price," he explains. "There are times when I lose."
"Of course!"
The other day he brought back a small hunting carbine. He also managed to procure the whole paraphernalia required for making snares and traps.
He is away for hours at a time, prowling about the woods, risking a court-martial a score of times, all to bring back a few tom-tits. On his return, blood and feathers are sticking to his fingers.