purple convolvulus among great scarlet
poppies and roses like red cabbages.

"No doubt about it, we've got good taste in France," says Tirette.

"The chap that did all that had a cartload of patience," Blaire
declares as he looks at the rainbow embellishments.

"In these places," Volpatte adds, "the pleasure of drinking isn't the
only one."

Paradis informs us that he knows all about cafes. On Sundays formerly,
he frequented cafes as beautiful as this one and even more beautiful.
Only, he explains, that was a long time ago, and he has lost the flavor
that they've got. He indicates a little enameled wash-hand basin
hanging on the wall and decorated with flowers: "There's where one can
wash his hands." We steer politely towards the basin. Volpatte signs to
Paradis to turn the tap, and says, "Set the waterworks going!"

Then all six of us enter the saloon, whose circumference is already
adorned with customers, and install ourselves at a table.

"We'll have six currant-vermouths, shall we?"

"We could very easily get used to it again, after all," they repeat.

Some civilians leave their places and come near us. They whisper,
"They've all got the Croix de Guerre, Adolphe, you see---"--"Those are
real poilus!"

Our comrades overhear, and now they only talk among themselves
abstractedly, with their ears elsewhere, and an unconscious air of
importance appears.

A moment later, the man and woman from whom the remarks proceeded lean
towards us with their elbows on the white marble and question us: "Life
in the trenches, it's very rough, isn't it?"

"Er--yes--well, of course, it isn't always pleasant."

"What splendid physical and moral endurance you have! In the end you
get used to the life, don't you?"

"Why, yes, of course, one gets used to it--one gets used to it all
right."

"All the same, it's a terrible existence--and the suffering!" murmurs
the lady, turning over the leaves of an illustrated paper which
displays gloomy pictures of destruction. "They ought not to publish
these things, Adolphe, about the dirt and the vermin and the fatigues!
Brave as you are, you must be unhappy?"

Volpatte, to whom she speaks, blushes. He is ashamed of the misery
whence he comes, whither he must return. He lowers his head and lies,
perhaps without realizing the extent of his mendacity: "No, after all,
we're not unhappy, it isn't so terrible as all that!"

The lady is of the same opinion. "I know," she says, "there are
c