lined up between two large huts, a deep Yellow Brimstone butterfly came
floating idly past. It gave me inexpressible delight, a delight tempered
by sadness and a longing for better times. I drew my pay and saluted
perfunctorily, being unable and unwilling to think of anything but the
beauty of the sky, the sun, and the wonderful insect.

I held my three ten-franc notes in my hand and thought: "I _will_ enjoy
this lovely day to the full. When we get back to camp I will do without
the repulsive army fare, I will dine at the St. Martin and buy a bottle
of the best French wine, even if it costs me twenty francs. And then
I'll walk to the little wood on the hill-slope and there I'll lie all
the evening and dream or read a book."

The whistle sounded. It was time to go back to work. But I cursed the
work and decided to take the small risk and remain idle for an hour or
two. I went to an outlying part of the yard and sat down on a patch of
long grass and leant back against a shed. The air was hot and several
bees flew by. Their buzzing reminded me of summer holidays spent in
southern France before the war. I thought of vineyards and orchards, of
skies intensely blue, of scorching sunshine, of the tumultuous chirping
of cicadas and grasshoppers, and then of the tepid nights crowded with
glittering stars and hushed except for the piping of tree-frogs.

Before the war--before the war--I repeated the words to myself. They
conveyed a sense of immeasurable remoteness, of something gone and lost
for ever. But I _wouldn't_ think about it. I _would_ enjoy the present.
But the calm waters of happiness had been ruffled and it was beyond my
power to restore their tranquillity. I began to think of many things, of
the war itself, of the possible offensive, and soon the fretful
rebellious discontent, that obsessed all those of us who had not lost