Now and again they speak of their troubles
and narrate stories of the war and the time when the Prussians passed
by their door on the journey to Paris. "But they'll never pass here
again," the old man says, smoking the pipe of tobacco which our boys
have given him. "They'll get smashed out there." As he speaks he
points with a long lean finger towards the firing line, and lifts his
stick to his shoulder in imitation of a man firing a rifle.
Ten o'clock struck. We were deep in our straw and lights had been out
for a long time. I couldn't sleep, and as I lay awake I could hear
corpulent Z---- snoring in the corner. Outside a wind was whistling
mournfully and sweeping through the joists of the roof where the red
tiles had been shattered by shrapnel. There was something (p. 132)
melancholy and superbly grand in the night; the heaven was splashed
with stars, and the glow of rockets from the firing line lit up the
whole scene, and at intervals blotted out the lights of the sky. Here
in the loft all was so peaceful, so quiet; the pair downstairs had
gone to bed, they were now perhaps asleep and dreaming of their loved
ones. But I could not rest; I longed to get up again and go out into
the night.
Suddenly a hand tugged at my blanket, a form rose from the floor by my
side and a face peered into mine.
"It's me--Bill," a low voice whispered in my ear.
"Well?" I interrogated, raising myself on my elbow.
"Not sleepin'?" mumbled Bill, lighting a cigarette as he flopped down
on my blanket, half crushing my toes as he did so.
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