At any hour of the day one can always find at Madame Maillard's white wine, cards and tobacco. In a corner Henriot is sorting the letters. Milliard, after noting the parcels in a book, encloses them in a big bag.
"Are the letters for Achains' ready?" asks Varlet.
"Yes, here's the packet. We will bring you the parcels shortly."
The first thing we do on our return is to shout out—
"We have each had a pint of white wine at the train de combat."
"White wine, impossible! You lucky fellows!"
I have no idea why white wine is so scarce. In war there are hosts of things one cannot understand at all.
Monday, 21st December.
During the night a regiment of territorials have arrived who have not yet seen fire. They make a fine début, for Bucy is subjected to a heavier bombardment than ever; explosions for three hours without a break. A rain of iron splinters and balls falls upon the roof of our lodging. The tiles come toppling down into the yard. Varlet, who has gone for some of the famous white wine to the train de combat, rushes into the room, looking horribly scared as he clasps three bottles to his breast. At the corner of the street he had encountered two shrapnels.
"The first," he said, "went on its way, but I thought the second had got me. It knocked a piece off the doorpost beneath which I had rushed for shelter."