When the poilus have faced the Boches for two weeks in the trenches, they march down late at night to a village behind the lines, far enough away from the batteries to be out of danger of everything except occasional big shells, and near enough to be rushed up to the front in case of an attack.  There they are quartered in houses, barns, sheds, and cellars, in everything that can decently house and shelter a man.  These two weeks of repos are the poilus’ elysium, for they mean rest from strain, safety, and comparative comfort.  The English have behind their lines model villages with macadam roads, concrete sidewalks, a water system, a sewer system, and all kinds of schemes to make the soldiers happy; the French have to be contented with an ordinary Lorraine village, kept in good order by the Medical Corps, but quite destitute of anything as chic as the British possess.

The village of cantonnement is pretty sure to be the usual brown-walled, red-roofed village of Lorraine clumped round its parish church or mouldering castle.  In such a French village there is always a hall, usually over the largest wineshop, called the “Salle de Fetes,” and this hall serves for the concert each regiment gives while en repos.  The Government provides for, indeed insists upon, a weekly bath, and the bathhouse, usually some converted factory or large shed, receives its daily consignments of companies, marching up to the douches as solemnly as if they were going to church.  Round the army continues the often busy life of the village, for to many such a hamlet the presence of a multitude of soldiers is a great economic boon.  Grocery-shops, in particular, do a rushing business, for any soldier who has a sou is glad to vary the government menu with such delicacies as pates de foie gras, little sugar biscuits, and the well- beloved tablet of chocolate.

While the grocery-man (l’epicier) is fighting somewhere in the north or in the Argonne, madame l’epiciere stays at home and serves the customers.  At her side is her own father, an old fellow wearing big yellow sabots, and perhaps the grocer’s son and heir, a boy about twelve years old.  Madame is dressed entirely in black, not because she is in mourning, but because it is the rural fashion; she wears a knitted shoulder cape, a high black collar, and moves in a brisk, businesslike way; the two men wear the blue-check overalls persons of their calling affect, in company with very clean white collars and rather dirty, frayed bow ties of unlovely patterns.  Along the counter stand the poilus, young, old, small, and large, all wearing various fadings of the horizon blue, and helmets often dented.  “Some pate de foie gras, madame, s’il vous plait.”  “Oui, monsieur.”  “How much is this cheese, maman?” cries the boy in a shrill treble.  In the barrel-haunted darkness at the rear of the shop, the old man fumbles round for some tins of jelly.  The poilu is very fond of sweets.  Sometimes swish bang! a big shell