sticking themselves on again, the wife and the little ones will look
at me, and I shall look at them. And while they're growing again
like lettuces, my friends, the war, it'll make progress--the
Russians--one doesn't know, what?" He is thinking aloud, lulling
himself with happy anticipations, already alone with his private
festival in the midst of us.

"Robber!" Feuillade shouts at him. "You've too much luck, by God!"

How could we not envy him? He would be going away for one, two, or
three months; and all that time, instead of our wretched privations,
he would be transformed into a man of means!

"At the beginning," says Farfadet, "it sounded comic when I heard
them wish for a 'good wound.' But all the same, and whatever can be
said about it, I understand now that it's the only thing a poor
soldier can hope for if he isn't daft."

* * * * * *

We were drawing near to the village and passing round the wood. At
its corner, the sudden shape of a woman arose against the sportive
sunbeams that outlined her with light. Alertly erect she stood,
before the faintly violet background of the wood's marge and the
crosshatched trees. She was slender, her head all afire with fair
hair, and in her pale face we could see the night-dark caverns of
great eyes. The resplendent being gazed fixedly upon us, trembling,
then plunged abruptly into the undergrowth and disappeared like a
torch.