have looked more ferociously at a mutineer. And yet it was all over
some minor breach of discipline which was summarily disposed of by two
days of confinement. Then in an instant the faces relaxed, there was a
general buzz of relief and we were back at 'Mes enfants' again. But
don't make any mistake as to discipline in the French army.

Trenches are trenches, and the main specialty of these in the Argonne
is that they are nearer to the enemy. In fact there are places where
they interlock, and where the advanced posts lie cheek by jowl with a
good steel plate to cover both cheek and jowl. We were brought to a
sap-head where the Germans were at the other side of a narrow forest
road. Had I leaned forward with extended hand and a Boche done the same
we could have touched. I looked across, but saw only a tangle of wire
and sticks. Even whispering was not permitted in these forward posts.

* * * * *

When we emerged from these hushed places of danger Cyrano took us all
to his dug-out, which was a tasty little cottage carved from the side
of a hill and faced with logs. He did the honours of the humble cabin
with the air of a seigneur in his chateau. There was little furniture,
but from some broken mansion he had extracted an iron fire-back, which
adorned his grate. It was a fine, mediaeval bit of work, with Venus, in
her traditional costume, in the centre of it. It seemed the last touch
in the picture of the gallant, virile Cyrano. I only met him this once,
nor shall I ever see him again, yet he stands a thing complete within
my memory. Even now as I write these lines he walks the leafy paths of
the Argonne, his fierce eyes ever searching for the Boche workers, his
red moustache bristling over their annihilation. He seems a figure out
of the past of France.