That night we dined with yet another type of the French soldier,
General A., who commands the corps of which my friend has one division.
Each of these French generals has a striking individuality of his own
which I wish I could fix upon paper. Their only common point is that
each seems to be a rare good soldier. The corps general is Athos with a
touch of d'Artagnan. He is well over six feet high, bluff, jovial, with
huge, up-curling moustache, and a voice that would rally a regiment. It
is a grand figure which should have been done by Van Dyck with lace
collar, hand on sword, and arm akimbo. Jovial and laughing was he, but
a stern and hard soldier was lurking behind the smiles. His name may
appear in history, and so may Humbert's, who rules all the army of
which the other's corps is a unit. Humbert is a Lord Robert's figure,
small, wiry, quick-stepping, all steel and elastic, with a short,
sharp upturned moustache, which one could imagine as crackling with
electricity in moments of excitement like a cat's fur. What he does or
says is quick, abrupt, and to the point. He fires his remarks like
pistol shots at this man or that. Once to my horror he fixed me with
his hard little eyes and demanded 'Sherlock Holmes, est ce qu'il est un
soldat dans l'armee Anglaise?' The whole table waited in an awful hush.
'Mais, mon general,' I stammered, 'il est trop vieux pour service.'
There was general laughter, and I felt that I had scrambled out of an
awkward place.

And talking of awkward places, I had forgotten about that spot upon the
road whence the Boche observer could see our motor-cars. He had
actually laid a gun upon it, the rascal, and waited all the long day
for our return. No sooner did we appear upon the slope than a shrapnel
shell burst above us, but somewhat behind me, as well as to the left.
Had it been straight the second car would have got it, and there might