“Nom de Dieu!” yelled Rochas, “will you lie down!”

And Maurice had barely more than complied with this intimation when a shell passed screaming over him.  From that time forth there seemed to be no end to them.  The enemy’s gunners were slow in obtaining the range, their first projectiles passing over and landing well to the rear of the battery, which was now opening in reply.  Many of their shells, too, fell upon the soft ground, in which they buried themselves without exploding, and for a time there was a great display of rather heavy wit at the expense of those bloody sauerkraut eaters.

“Well, well!” said Loubet, “their fireworks are a fizzle!”

“They ought to take them in out of the rain,” sneered Chouteau.

Even Rochas thought it necessary to say something.  “Didn’t I tell you that the dunderheads don’t know enough even to point a gun?”

But they were less inclined to laugh when a shell burst only ten yards from them and sent a shower of earth flying over the company; Loubet affected to make light of it by ordering his comrades to get out their brushes from the knapsacks, but Chouteau suddenly became very pale and had not a word to say.  He had never been under fire, nor had Pache and Lapoulle, nor any member of the squad, in fact, except Jean.  Over eyes that had suddenly lost their brightness lids flickered tremulously; voices had an unnatural, muffled sound, as if arrested by some obstruction in the throat.  Maurice, who was sufficiently master of himself as yet, endeavored to diagnose his symptoms; he could not be afraid, for he was not conscious that he was in danger; he only felt a slight sensation of discomfort in the epigastric region, and his head seemed strangely light and empty; ideas and images came and went independent of his will.  His recollection of the brave show made by the troops of the 2d division made him hopeful, almost to buoyancy; victory appeared certain to him if only they might be allowed to go at the enemy with the bayonet.

“Listen!” he murmured, “how the flies buzz; the place is full of them.”  Thrice he had heard something that sounded like the humming of a swarm of bees.

“That was not a fly,” Jean said, with a laugh.  “It was a bullet.”

Again and again the hum of those invisible wings made itself heard.  The men craned their necks and looked about them with eager interest; their curiosity was uncontrollable—­would not allow them to remain quiet.

“See here,” Loubet said mysteriously to Lapoulle, with a view to raise a laugh at the expense of his simple-minded comrade, “when you see a bullet coming toward you you must raise your forefinger before your nose—­like that; it divides the air, and the bullet will go by to the right or left.”

“But I can’t see them,” said Lapoulle.

A loud guffaw burst from those near.

“Oh, crickey! he says he can’t see them!  Open your garret windows, stupid!  See! there’s one—­see! there’s another.  Didn’t you see that one?  It was of the most beautiful green.”