It is again fine. The contingent complement is back from march and drill, and I am resting on a form. All around is a regiment of hens and geese, geese with blue eyes just like those of a lady I once met and whom I suddenly call to mind.
The ducklings waddle along in twos, plunge their beaks and roll about in the liquid manure, and when they have become transformed into little balls of filth, they march away with the utmost gravity to gargle and clean themselves in the river. Farther away are cows, sheep, and dirty children. In front of me lie heaps of dung, two on my right and one on my left; it is quite unnecessary for me to turn round, for I am certain there is another behind me. The glorious sun, however, compensates for everything, and the scenery is very picturesque.
I spring to my feet as I hear the words: "The contingent complement is wanted at the office."
I cross the meadow, pass the river by the narrow drawbridge, and ascend the pebbly road leading to the shed euphemistically called "the office." A gift: ninety-six cartridges; a piece of news: the contingent complement is expected to leave for the front at any moment.
Both the gift and the piece of news are very welcome.
Then follow musters upon musters; reviews by corporal, sergeant, chief of section; review by the lieutenant in command of the company.
That evening, in the loft, Verrier and Reymond, who are to stay behind at Humes, minutely check the contents of my haversack and musette. They add a tin of preserves and complete my first field-dressing and sewing materials. Evidently they think that those in the fighting line run considerable risks. My own thoughts are all of home, after the war, of the peace and quiet of daily existence once this task is over.
Vitrier, the fortunate possessor of a folding-bed, returns at nine o'clock. The lucky fellow evades all the drills and marches, and spends his days at home in the neighbourhood. He is a charming person, whom we have affectionately nicknamed "the Spy," because he is to be met with only after twilight or before dawn. "The Spy" has brought young Raoul up to the loft; a gentle, light-complexioned, pallid-looking youth. He talks like a book and is full of such aphorisms as—
"For a man who, like me, is horrified at the very thought of death, a soldier's life is quite a mistake."
As he removes his foot-gear, Raoul tells us that he has been this afternoon watching the trains full of wounded pass by.