A tête-à-tête dinner, a very quiet affair, after which we lie down on our beds.
"How comfortable!"
Yes, indeed, this is the real thing. We might almost imagine ourselves back in civil life!
The low-roofed room, which receives air and light only by way of the door, was evidently white-washed long ago. There are spiders' webs in every corner. The floor consists of beaten earth. The walls are bare except for two chromos—Nicholas II and Félix Faure—just visible beneath fly-stained glasses. The beds take up almost the entire space available. We sleep right through the night and late into the next morning. The hours spent in profound slumber represent so much gained from the war.
Saturday, 19th December.
Yesterday we were right in feeling anxious about our friends. From daybreak onwards the farm has been bombarded over our heads. The shells roar with varying intensity as they pass, according to their size. The little ten-year-old girl, skipping about the yard in her sabots, hums out—
"There! That's a 210 at least, and this one a 105. Oh, that little one's but a 77!"
A loud crash, however, sends her flying into the cellar. When she comes up again she tremblingly clutches her mother's skirt. Madame Achain gives her a good shaking.
"What's the matter with you, little stupid?"
"Oh, I'm frightened of the shells!"