It was time for slumber.  The shed gaped open in front and at the sides, but the air was not cold.

“We’ve done with the bad days,” said Remus; “shan’t see them no more.”

“At last!” said Margat.

We stretched ourselves out, elbow to elbow.  The one in the dark corner blew out his candle.

“May the war look slippy and get finished!” mumbled Orango.

“If only they’ll let me transfer to the cyclists,” Margat replied.

We said no more, each forming that same great wandering prayer and some little prayer like Margat’s.  Gently we wrapped ourselves up on the straw, one with the falling night, and closed our eyes.

* * * * * *

At the bottom of the village, in the long pink farmhouse, there was a charming woman, who smiled at us with twinkling eyes.  As the days emerged from the rains and fogs, I looked at her with all my soul, for she was bathed in the youth of the year.  She had a little nose and big eyes and slight fair down on her lips and neck, like traces of gold.  Her husband was mobilized and we paid attentions to her.  She smiled at the soldiers as she went by, and chattered willingly with the non-coms; and the passage of officers brought her to a standstill of vague respect.  I used to think about her, and I forgot, through her, to write to Marie.

There were many who inquired, speaking of the farmer’s wife, “Any chance?” But there were many who replied, “Nothing doing.”

One morning that was bright above all others, my companions were busy holding their sides around a tipsy comrade whom they were catechizing and ragging, and sprinkling now and then with little doses of wine, to entertain him, and benefit more by him.  These innocent amusements, like those which Termite provoked when he discoursed on militarism and the universe, did not detain me, and I gained the street.

I went down the paved slope.  In gardens and enclosures, the buds were holding out a multitude of lilliputian green hands, all still closed, and the apple-trees had white roses.  Spring was hastening everywhere.  I came in sight of the pink house.  She was alone in the road and she took all the sunshine for herself.  I hesitated, I went by—­my steps slackened heavily—­I stopped, and returned towards the door.  Almost in spite of myself I went in.

At first—­light!  A square of sunshine glowed on the red tiled floor of the kitchen.  Casseroles and basins were shining brightly.

She was there!  Standing by the sink she was making a streak of silver flow into a gleaming pail, amid the luminous blush of the polished tiles and the gold of the brass pans.  The greenish light from the window-glass was moistening her skin.  She saw me and she smiled.

I knew that she always smiled at us.  But we were alone!  I felt a mad longing arise.  There was something in me that was stronger than I, that ravished the picture of her.  Every second she became more beautiful.  Her plump dress proffered her figure to my eyes, and her skirt trembled over her polished sabots.  I looked at her neck, at her throat—­that extraordinary beginning.  A strong perfume that enveloped her shoulders was like the truth of her body.  Urged forward, I went towards her, and I could not even speak.