Chevalier's head disappears. The door shuts. Fresh shells.
"How stupid of us to swagger in this way!" we reflect.
On coming to relieve us, the two following sentries, after muffling themselves up by lantern light, ask—
"A pretty heavy bombardment just now, eh?"
I have the audacity to reply—
"Ah! We did not even pay attention to it, we were talking."
And so, "La tempeste finie, Panurge faict le bon compaignon," as Rabelais said.
Monday, 23rd November.
The lieutenant appears at the door and calls out—
"Everybody under shelter, to the grottoes. The bombardment is beginning again."