A bright sun, fine and cold weather. The company go down to the grotto, where they are to sleep to-night. Consequently we shall celebrate our Christmas-eve "beneath these vaults of stone" as the song goes in Don Carlos.
Here comes the postman. What a heap of parcels! We spend the afternoon in unpacking them; the war is forgotten; our main preoccupation is to prepare a dinner to which the squadron will all contribute. Jules has gone down to Bucy; for once he has received the lieutenant's permission. His errand is to bring back some wine.
Crouching in a corner, with a bayonet-candlestick by my side, I write away. The man next to me becomes irritated by my silence and evident preoccupation.
"What are you writing?" he asks.
"A letter to my servant."
"Well! That's the very last thing I should have expected you to do."
"You fool! I'm giving her instructions to send out my New Year's gifts, telling her to buy boxes of sweets and chocolates, and giving her the addresses to which they are to be sent, with my card."
No sooner have I spoken than a whole string of epithets—snob, poseur, dandy—comes down on my devoted head. I reply in very dignified fashion—
"Oh, indeed! Then you cannot even tolerate ordinary politeness in a man?"