dram of best brandy down their gullets whenever they want, and wash
themselves oftener twice than once, and go to church, and never stop
smoking, and pack themselves up in feathers at night to read the
newspaper--and then they say afterwards, 'I've been in the war!'"

One point above all had got hold of Volpatte and emerged from his
confused and impassioned vision: "All those soldiers, they haven't
to run away with their table-tools and get a bite any old
way--they've got to be at their ease--they'd rather go and sit
themselves down with some tart in the district, at a special
reserved table, and guzzle vegetables, and the fine lady puts their
crockery out all square for them on the dining-table, and their pots
of jam and every other blasted thing to eat; in short, the
advantages of riches and peace in that doubly-damned hell they call
the Rear!"

Volpatte's neighbor shook his head under the torrents that fell from
heaven and said," So much the better for them."

"I'm not crazy--" Volpatte began again.

"P'raps, but you're not fair."

Volpatte felt himself insulted by the word. He started, and raised
his head furiously, and the rain, that was waiting for the chance,
took him plump in the face. "Not fair--me? Not fair--to those
dung-hills?"

"Exactly, monsieur," the neighbor replied; "I tell you that you play
hell with them and yet you'd jolly well like to be in the rotters'