"A fine tale, indeed! Look at these messieurs, are they frightened?"
These messieurs, quietly seated, affect an impassive attitude, to reassure the child.
About three o'clock a lull. We walk over to visit the hospital attendants. A hearty welcome, cups of tea, every one very polite. A couple of armchairs are provided for us by the fireplace. We are treated like lords of a manor.
The Germans are now firing upon Vénizel, some distance farther away. The petrol works seem to be in flames. Our hosts invite us to view the spectacle from the second floor. It is hazy, however, and nothing can be distinguished except a dense cloud of yellowish smoke on the other bank of the Aisne.
"Really, you have no luck at all!" exclaim the attendants; "generally we can make out Vénizel as distinctly as though we were in the town itself."
Soissons also is being violently bombarded.
At night our friends return from the Montagne farm. Varlet affirms—
"We were awfully sorry for you. You missed the marmites falling all about your ears."
A couple of projectiles, it seems, had fallen right on to the cattle-shed; a shrapnel had crashed through the dormer-window of the stable where the squadron lay stretched on the ground, and riddled the door with bullets. The section had to take refuge in the grotto-like sheep-fold in the midst of the sheep, now bleating louder than ever.
Sunday, 20th December.