Our comrades overhear, and now they only talk among themselves abstractedly, with their ears elsewhere, and an unconscious air of importance appears.

A moment later, the man and woman from whom the remarks proceeded lean towards us with their elbows on the white marble and question us:  “Life in the trenches, it’s very rough, isn’t it?”

“Er—­yes—­well, of course, it isn’t always pleasant.”

“What splendid physical and moral endurance you have!  In the end you get used to the life, don’t you?”

“Why, yes, of course, one gets used to it—­one gets used to it all right.”

“All the same, it’s a terrible existence—­and the suffering!” murmurs the lady, turning over the leaves of an illustrated paper which displays gloomy pictures of destruction.  “They ought not to publish these things, Adolphe, about the dirt and the vermin and the fatigues!  Brave as you are, you must be unhappy?”

Volpatte, to whom she speaks, blushes.  He is ashamed of the misery whence he comes, whither he must return.  He lowers his head and lies, perhaps without realizing the extent of his mendacity:  “No, after all, we’re not unhappy, it isn’t so terrible as all that!”

The lady is of the same opinion.  “I know,” she says, “there are compensations!  How superb a charge must be, eh?  All those masses of men advancing like they do in a holiday procession, and the trumpets playing a rousing air in the fields!  And the dear little soldiers that can’t be held back and shouting, ‘Vive la France!’ and even laughing as they die!  Ah! we others, we’re not in honor’s way like you are.  My husband is a clerk at the Prefecture, and just now he’s got a holiday to treat his rheumatism.”

“I should very much have liked to be a soldier,” said the gentleman, “but I’ve no luck.  The head of my office can’t get on without me.”

People go and come, elbowing and disappearing behind each other.  The waiters worm their way through with their fragile and sparkling burdens—­green, red or bright yellow, with a white border.  The grating of feet on the sanded floor mingles with the exclamations of the regular customers as they recognize each other, some standing, others leaning on their elbows, amid the sound of glasses and dominoes pushed along the tables.  In the background, around the seductive shock of ivory balls, a crowding circle of spectators emits classical pleasantries.

“Every man to his trade, mon brave,” says a man at the other end of the table whose face is adorned with powerful colors, addressing Tirette directly; “you are heroes.  On our side, we are working in the economic life of the country.  It is a struggle like yours.  I am useful—­I don’t say more useful than you, but equally so.”

And I see Tirette through the cigar-smoke making round eyes, and in the hubbub I can hardly hear the reply of his humble and dumbfounded voice—­Tirette, the funny man of the squad!—­“Yes, that’s true; every man to his trade.”