is troubles. It rarely happens
that either the squad or the section actually lodges in the place
assigned to them, and this by reason of misunderstandings and cross
purposes which tangle and disentangle themselves on the spot; and it is
only after several quarter-hours of tribulation that each man is led to
his actual shelter of the moment.

So after the usual wanderings we were admitted to our night's
lodging--a roof supported by four posts, and with the four quarters of
the compass for its walls. But it was a good roof--an advantage which
we could appreciate. It was already sheltering a cart and a plow, and
we settled ourselves by them. Paradis, who had fumed and complained
without ceasing during the hour we had spent in tramping to and fro,
threw down his knapsack and then himself, and stayed there awhile,
weary to the utmost, protesting that his limbs were benumbed, that the
soles of his feet were painful, and indeed all the rest of him.

But now the house to which our hanging roof was subject, the house
which stood just in front of us, was lighted up. Nothing attracts a
soldier in the gray monotony of evening so much as a window whence
beams the star of a lamp.

"Shall we have a squint?" proposed Volpatte.

"So be it," said Paradis. He gets up gradually, and hobbling with
weariness, steers himself towards the golden window that has appeared
in the gloom, and then towards the door. Volpatte follows him, and I
Volpatte.

We enter, and ask the old man who has let us in and whose twinkling
head is as threadbare as an old hat, if he has any wine to sell.

"No," replies the old man, shaking his head, where a little white fluff
crops out in places.

"No beer? No coffee? Anything at all--"

"No, mes amis, nothing of anything. We don't belong here; we're
refugees, you know."

"Then seeing there's nothing, we'll be off." We right-about face. At
least we have enjoyed for a moment the warmth which pervades the house
and a sight of the lamp. Already Volpatte has gained the threshold and
his back is disappearing in the darkness.

But I espy an old woman, sunk in the depths of a chair in the other
corner of the kitchen, who appears to have some busy occupation.

I pinch Paradis' arm. "There's the belle of the house. Shall we pay our
addresses to her?"

Paradis makes a gesture of lordly indifference. He has lost interest in
women--all those he has seen for a year and a half were not for him;
and moreover, even when