"C'est ça, c'est ça!" agrees the priest.
"Such a huge beast too!" says the Colonel.
He is probably comparing it with a fox.
I find myself mentally agreeing with Madame Caspiar that Germans are really preferable to wolves.
The long, white, snow-covered road that leads back to the world seems endlessly long as I stare out of the Inn windows realizing that sooner or later I must traverse that long white lonely road across the plains before I can get to safety, and the nearest town. Are there more wolves in there, slinking ever nearer to the cities? That is what everyone seems to believe now. We see them in scores, in hundreds, prowling with hot breath in search of wounded soldiers, or anyone they can get.
We are all undoubtedly depressed.
Then a Provision "Motor" comes down that road, and out of it jumps a little, old, white-moustached man in a heavy sheepskin overcoat and red woollen gloves, carrying something wrapped in a shawl.
He comes clattering into the Inn.
His small black eyes are swimming with tears.
"Mon Dieu!" he says, gulping some coffee and rum. "Give me a little hot milk, Madame! My poor monkey is near dying."