to go to America."

"A Frenchman is never happy out of France."

Comfortably seated in a big, ugly chair, he puffed his cigarette and
meditated.

"Perhaps you are right," he admitted. "We Frenchmen love the good
things, and think we can get them in France better than anywhere else.
The solid satisfactions of life--good wine--good cheese." He paused.
"You see, son, all that (tout ça) is an affair of mine--in civilian life
(dans le civil) I am a grocer at Macon in Bourgogne."

For a little while we talked of Burgundy, which I had often visited in
my student days at Lyons. There came another pause, and the Burgundian
said:--

"Well, what do you think of this big racket (ce grand fracas)?"

"I have not seen enough of it to say."

"Well, I think you are going to get a taste of it to-night. I heard our
artillery men (nos artiflots) early this morning firing their long-range
cannon, and every time they do that the Boches throw shells into
Pont-à-Mousson. I have been expecting an answer all day. If they start
in to-night, get up and come down cellar, son. This house was struck by
a shell two weeks ago."

The shadowy, candlelit room and the dark city became at his words more
mysterious and hostile. The atmosphere seemed pervaded by some obscure,