“The grease?”

“Yes, we always grease our bayonets, you know.  To prevent them getting rusty.”

He was a man of few words, but in three sentences he had given me a battle-picture as clearly visualised as a canvas of Verestchagin.  The reminiscences of the plumber provoked the paperhanger to further recollections, more particularly the stunning effects of the French shell-fire.  He had found four dead Germans—­they had been surprised by a shell while playing cards in a billet.  “They still had the cards in their hands, monsieur, just as you see us—­and they hadn’t got a scratch.  They were like the statues in the Louvre.”

“Yes,” said the sous-officier, “I have seen them like that.  I remember I found a big Bosche—­six feet four he must have been—­sitting dead in a house which we had shelled.  His face was just like wax, and he sat there like a wooden doll with his long arms hanging down stiff—­yes! comme une poupee.  And I couldn’t find a scratch on him—­not one!  And do you know what he had on—­a woman’s chemise! Ecoutez!” he added suddenly, and he held up a monitory hand.

Echoing down the corridor outside there came nearer and nearer the beat of a drum and with it the liquid notes of a fife.  I recognised the measure—­who can ever forget it!  It stirs the blood like a trumpet.  The door was kicked open and two convalescent soldiers entered, one wearing a festive cap of coloured paper such as is secreted in Christmas “crackers.”  He was playing a fife, and the drummer was close upon his heels.

Every one rose in his bed and lifted up his voice: 

     Allons! enfants de la Patrie!

A strange electricity ran through us all.  The card-players had thrown down their cards just as the plumber was about to trump an ace.  The others had tossed aside their papers and laid down their cigarettes.  The Turco—­“Muley Hafid” he was called, because those were the only words of his any one could understand—­who had been deploying imaginary troops, with the aid of matches, upon the counterpane, as though he were a sick child playing with leaden soldiers, recognised the tune, and in default of words began to beat time with a soup spoon.  Up and down the passage way between the beds marched the fife and drum; louder beat the drum, more piercing grew the fife.  What delirious joy-of-battle, what poignant cries of anguish, has not that immortal music both stirred and soothed!  To what supremacy of effort has it not incited?  It has succoured dying men with its viaticum.  It has brought fire to glazing eyes.  It has exalted men a little higher than the angels, it has won the angels to the side of men: 

       Tout est soldat pour vous combattre: 
       S’ils tombent, nos jeunes heros,
       La terre en produit de nouveaux
       Contre vous tout prets a se battre. 
     Aux armes, citoyens!  Formez vos bataillons: 
     Marchons, qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons.