“If I don’t get well over by the morning, I don’t get over at all,” he explained.

The next day was in every way similar to the previous one.  No order to move was received, and sleep was the most popular occupation.  Now and then, in intervals between the artillery duels, they would dash up the steps and air themselves as best as they could.  In one of his rambles the Subaltern alighted upon a peach tree, which was greatly appreciated.  When the familiar sounds began again, they would troop once more down the steps and fall asleep in the cellar, until peace was restored.

On one occasion, following his men after he had seen them all safely down, a piece of high explosive shell-dust bounced from the wall, and embedded itself in the skin of his temple.

“By Jove!” he said, when he was safely in the cellar; “this is all very well, but if a big one did happen to drop on this house above here, we shouldn’t stand the ghost of a chance.  It would be better to be out in the open.  We might be buried by the falling bricks.”

Fate was kind.  But once, on regaining the open, some one noticed that a weathercock had been struck off one of the gables.

“It just wanted to be twenty feet lower,” said some one speculatively.

The Subaltern enjoyed very much his short stay in Poussey.  The old Mayor and his wife were a charming couple, and as usual did everything in their power to make their Allies comfortable.  On the other hand, it must be admitted that the British Officers, with their unfailing politeness and good spirits, made no small impression on them.  The Subaltern once heard the old lady say to her husband—­

“Eh!  Mon vieux, quelle difference!  Ils sont si gentils, si polis ... et les autres....  Ach!  Les cochons!”

“What an impertinence,” he thought, “to compare us!”

His coat was badly rent in the back, and once, while he was asleep, the old lady took it, and mended it with thick red twine.

Of course they had the inevitable sons or nephews at the front, and they had received no news of them.  One had to listen with great attention, and an air of solicitude, and murmur some little consolations.

One morning, the Subaltern forgets whether it was the first or second day of their stay, the old man took him into his library.  It was a long, low room, fragrant with the smell of old books, and it looked out upon the leafy orchard.  All the volumes were beautifully bound and nearly all were standard classics.  He was surprised at the culture of this little spot, tucked away in the intellectual desert of rural France, and at the refinement of this man, who had been a farmer all his life.  All the while a great battle was being fought outside; one could not be sure of life for a consecutive hour; at such a time it was amazing to be fingering fine old books, in the quiet, sombre library, by the side of an old man in a black velvet skullcap.