uered thresholds, domestically busy.

Tirette imitates the sounds of lowing and bleating--"There's our
cattle-shed." A fairly big barn. The chopped straw smells of
night-soil, and our feet stir up clouds of dust. But it is almost
enclosed. We choose our places and cast off our equipment.

Those who dreamed yet once again of a special sort of Paradise sing
low--yet once again. "Look now, it seems as ugly as the other
places."--"It's something like the same."--"Naturally."

But there is no time to waste in talking. The thing is to get clear and
be after the others with all strength and speed. We hurry out. In spite
of broken backs and aching feet, we set ourselves savagely to this last
effort on which the comfort of a week depends.

The squad divides into two patrols and sets off at the double, one to
left and one to right along the street, which is already obstructed by
busy questing poilus; and all the groups see and watch each other--and
hurry. In places there are collisions, jostlings, and abuse.

"Let's begin down there at once, or our goose'll be cooked!" I have an
impression of a kind of fierce battle between all the soldiers, in the
streets of the village they have just occupied. "For us," says
Marthereau, "war is always struggling and fighting--always, always."

We knock at door after door, we show ourselves timidly, we offer
ourselves like undesirable goods. A voice arises among us, "You haven't
a bit of a corner, madame, for some soldiers? We would pay."

"No--you see, I've got officers--under-officers, that is--you see, it's
the mess for the band, and the secretaries, and the gentlemen of the
ambulance--"

Vexation after vexation. We close again, one after the other, all the
doors we had half-opened, and look at each other, on the wrong side of
the threshold, with dwindling hope in our eyes.

"Bon Dieu! You'll see that we shan't find anything," growls Barque.
"Damn those chaps that got on the midden before us!"

The human flood reaches high-water mark everywhere. The three streets
are all growing dark as each overflows into another. Some natives cross
our path, old men or ill-shapen, contorted in their walk, stunted in
the face; and even young people, too, over whom hovers the mystery of
secret disorders or political connections. As for the petticoats, there
are old women and many young ones--fat, with well-padded cheeks, and
equal to geese in their whiteness.

Suddenly, in an alley between two hou