Corporal Bertrand? Following on a remark of Fouillade's, Bertrand
told him to go to the devil, and now they look at each other
sideways. Farfadet? Fouillade hardly speaks a word to him in the
ordinary way. No, he feels that he cannot ask this of Farfadet. And
then--a thousand thunders!--what is the use of seeking saviors in
one s imagination? Where are they, all these people, at this hour?

Slowly he goes back towards the barn. Then mechanically he turns and
goes forward again, with hesitating steps. He will try, all the
same. Perhaps he can find convivial comrades. He approaches the
central part of the village just when night has buried the earth.

The lighted doors and windows of the taverns shine again in the mud
of the main street. There are taverns every twenty paces. One dimly
sees the heavy specters of soldiers, mostly in groups, descending
the street. When a motor-car comes along, they draw aside to let it
pass, dazzled by the head-lights, and bespattered by the liquid mud
that the wheels hurl over the whole width of the road.

The taverns are full. Through the steamy windows one can see they
are packed with compact clouds of helmeted men. Fouillade goes into
one or two, on chance. Once over the threshold, the dram-shop's
tepid breath, the light, the smell and the hubbub, affect him with
longing. This gathering at tables is at least a fragment of the past
in the present.

He looks from table to table, and disturbs the groups as he goes up
to scrutinize all the merrymakers in the room. Alas, he knows no
one! Elsewhere, it is the same; he has no luck. In vain he has
extended his neck and sent his desperate glances in search of a