But the Humel-Playoust "lot"! Ravelli might rightly be classed with them now. I have spoken of the complete transformation which had been effected in him. It was doubtful whether the poilus ever heard the sound of his voice. Playoust had taken possession of him, getting hold of him through his weaknesses, flattering his Corsican vanity, but making a laughing-stock of him, though he was too stupid to see it. They never left each other, and were on the most familiar terms. These days, so fertile in surprises, had completely deranged the sergeant-major who had always been rather shaky in the upper storey. He saw spies everywhere—in all the old women, and priests, disguises which had as a matter of fact been made use of. Playoust spurred him on, for the amusement of the onlookers. The game was assuming alarming proportions. Ravelli, at Hazaumont, went to find the commanding officer, and handed over a list of suspects to him, which had been drawn slyly, by the other—all the parish priests in the neighbourhood! The captain was good-natured; he merely shook the poor sergeant-major:
"I shall keep my eye on you, my lad!"
Later on, on the evening of "Beauclair," Ravelli only just missed throwing the whole division into a panic by yelling "The Uhlans!"
Trouble might have come of it. There was some question of reducing him to the ranks. His last chance of obtaining officer's rank was lost then.
But in spite of it he still continued to pin all his faith to Playoust. His ears buzzed, and he was continually asking:
"Is that firing, that we hear?"
"Exactly."
And the wretch pointed out some fleecy clouds in the sky.
"Look there. Shells bursting!"
"Good heavens! Marked again!"