his head amid the sluggish and mournful storm that fills the barn.

Suddenly he calls to mind that there is settled in the village where
they are quartered a tavern-keeper who is a native of
Beziers, called Magnac. Magnac had said to him, "Come and see
me, mon camarade, one of these mornings, and we'll drink some wine
from down there, we will! I've several bottles of it, and you shall
tell me what you think of it."

This sudden prospect dazzles Fouillade. Through all his length runs
a thrill of delight, as though he had found the way of salvation.
Drink the wine of the South--of his own particular South,
even--drink much of it--it would be so good to see life rosy again,
if only for a day! Ah yes, he wants wine; and he gets drunk in a
dream.

But as he goes out he collides at the entry with Corporal Broyer,
who is running down the street like a peddler, and shouting at every
opening, "Morning parade!"

The company assembles and forms in squares on the sticky mound where
the traveling kitchen is sending soot into the rain. "I'll go and
have a drink after parade," says Fouillade to himself.

And he listens listlessly, full of his plan, to the reading of the
report. But carelessly as he listens, he hears the officer read, "It
is absolutely forbidden to leave quarters before 5 p.m. and after 8
p.m.," and he hears the captain, without noticing the murmur that
runs round the poilus, add this comment on the order: "This is
Divisional Headquarters. However many there are of you, don't show