"Lunch, indeed, Zut! You'll have to tighten your belts a little more. A marmite fell right in the middle of it all."
Varlet tells his tale: he heard the whistling sound, and knew that he was in for it. He had just time to plunge head first into a dog's kennel.
"When the thing exploded," explains our cook, "there was only my head inside, the dog prevented me from entering farther."
Good-bye to lunch and the toothsome dishes. Belin is exasperated.
"How will my squadron manage for meals now?" he wonders.
Prowling about, we discover a little grotto, a comfortable shelter in case of bombardment. Meanwhile, each man makes his own conjectures. Shall we attack this evening or to-morrow? Manifestly we have not been brought here to take an afternoon nap in the sun.
Suddenly an order comes that we are to be quartered at Port-Fontenoy. The deuce! This is the point of impact, the magnet that draws all the shells of the district.
A barn full of hay and straw. We fling ourselves on to the ground and sleep comes instantaneously.
About two in the morning Jacquard, whose turn it is to stand sentry before the door, shakes Roberty, who is soundly sleeping.