The German dug-out consisted of several rooms.  We were against a partition of ill-fitting planks; and on the other side, in Cave No. 2, some men were also awake.  We saw light trickle through the crannies between the planks and heard rumbling voices.  “It’s the other section,” said Marthereau.

Then we listened, mechanically.  “When I was off on leave,” boomed an invisible talker, “we had the hump at first, because we were thinking of my poor brother who was missing in March—­dead, no doubt—­and of my poor little Julien, of Class 1915, killed in the October attacks.  And then bit by bit, her and me, we settled down to be happy at being together again, you see.  Our little kid, the last, a five-year-old, entertained us a treat.  He wanted to play soldiers with me, and I made a little gun for him.  I explained the trenches to him; and he, all fluttering with delight like a bird, he was shooting at me and yelling.  Ah, the damned young gentleman, he did it properly!  He’ll make a famous poilu later!  I tell you, he’s quite got the military spirit!”

A silence; then an obscure murmur of talk, in the midst of which we catch the name of Napoleon; then another voice, or the same, saying, “Wilhelm, he’s a stinking beast to have brought this war on.  But Napoleon, he was a great man!”

Marthereau is kneeling in front of me in the feeble and scanty rays of our candle, in the bottom of this dark ill-enclosed hole where the cold shudders through at intervals, where vermin swarm and where the sorry crowd of living men endures the faint but musty savor of a tomb; and Marthereau looks at me.  He still hears, as I do, the unknown soldier who said, “Wilhelm is a stinking beast, but Napoleon was a great man,” and who extolled the martial ardor of the little boy still left to him.  Marthereau droops his arms and wags his weary head—­and the shadow of the double gesture is thrown on the partition by the lean light in a sudden caricature.

“Ah!” says my humble companion, “we’re all of us not bad sorts, and we’re unlucky, and we’re poor devils as well.  But we’re too stupid, we’re too stupid!”

Again he turns his eyes on me.  In his bewhiskered and poodle-like face I see his fine eyes shining in wondering and still confused contemplation of things which he is setting himself to understand in the innocence of his obscurity.

We come out of the uninhabitable shelter; the weather has bettered a little; the snow has melted, and all is soiled anew.  “The wind’s licked up the sugar,” says Marthereau.

* * * * *

I am deputed to accompany Mesnil Joseph to the refuge on the Pylones road.  Sergeant Henriot gives me charge of the wounded man and hands me his clearing order.  “If you meet Bertrand on the way,” says Henriot, “tell him to look sharp and get busy, will you?” Bertrand went away on liaison duty last night and they have been waiting for him for an hour; the captain is getting impatient and threatens to lose his temper.