"Can't be both here and there, looney. Give us a squint." He
examines the letter, balances it in his hand, and announces as he
tears the envelope, "It's from the old woman."

We slacken our pace. As he reads, he follows the lines with his
finger, wagging his head with an air of conviction, and his lips
moving like a woman's in prayer.

The throng increases the nearer we draw to the middle of the
village. We salute the commandant and the black-skirted padre who
walks by the other's side like his nurse. We are questioned by
Pigeon, Guenon, young Escutenaire, and Chasseur Clodore. Lamuse
appears blind and deaf, and concerned only to walk.

Bizouarne, Chanrion, and Roquette arrive excitedly to announce big
news--"D'you know, Pepere's going to the rear."

"Funny," says Biquet, raising his nose from his letter, "how people
kid themselves. The old woman's bothered about me!" He shows me a
passage in the maternal epistle: "'When you get my letter,'" he
spells out, "'no doubt you will be in the cold and mud, deprived of
everything, mon pauvre Eugene'" He laughs: "It's ten days
since she put that down for me, and she's clean off it. We're not
cold, 'cos it's been fine since this morning; and we're not
miserable, because we've got a room that's good enough. We've had
hard times, but we're all right now."

As we reach the kennel in which we are lodgers, we are thinking that
sentence over. Its touching simplicity affects me, shows me a