She leads us into the store-room.  Three fat barrels occupy it in impressive rotundity.  “Is this your little private store?”

“She knows her way about, the old lady,” growls Barque.

The shrew turns on her heel, truculent:  “Would you have me ruin myself by this miserable war?  I’ve about enough of losing money all ways at once.”

“How?” insists Barque.

“I can see you’re not going to risk your money!”

“That’s right—­we only risk our skins.”

We intervene, disturbed by the tone of menace for our present concern that the conversation has assumed.  But the door of the wine-cellar is shaken, and a man’s voice comes through.  “Hey, Palmyra!” it calls.

The woman hobbles away, discreetly leaving the door open.  “That’s all right—­we’ve taken root!” Lamuse says.

“What dirty devils these, people are!” murmurs Barque, who finds his reception hard to stomach.

“It’s shameful and sickening,” says Marthereau.

“One would think it was the first time you’d had any of it!”

“And you, old gabbler,” chides Barque, “that says prettily to the wine-robber, ‘Can’t be helped, it’s a military order’!  Gad, old man, you’re not short of cheek!”

“What else could I do or say?  We should have had to go into mourning for our table and our wine.  She could make us pay forty sous for the wine, and we should have had it all the same, shouldn’t we?  Very well, then, got to think ourselves jolly lucky.  I’ll admit I’d no confidence, and I was afraid it was no go.”

“I know; it’s the same tale everywhere and always, but all the same—­”

“Damn the thieving natives, ah, oui!  Some of ’em must be making fortunes.  Everybody can’t go and get killed.”

“Ah, the gallant people of the East!”

“Yes, and the gallant people of the North!”

“Who welcome us with open arms!”

“With open hands, yes—­”

“I tell you,” Marthereau says again, “it’s a shame and it’s sickening.”

“Shut it up—­there’s the she-beast coming back.”  We took a turn round to quarters to announce our success, and then went shopping.  When we returned to our new dining-room, we were hustled by the preparations for lunch.  Barque had been to the rations distribution, and had managed, thanks to personal relations with the cook (who was a conscientious objector to fractional divisions), to secure the potatoes and meat that formed the rations for all the fifteen men of the squad.  He had bought some lard—­a little lump for fourteen sous—­and some one was frying.  He had also acquired some green peas in tins, four tins.  Mesnil Andre’s tin of veal in jelly would be a hors-d’oeuvre.

“And not a dirty thing in all the lot!” said Lamuse, enchanted.

* * * * * *

We inspected the kitchen.  Barque was moving cheerfully about the iron Dutch oven whose hot and steaming bulk furnished all one side of the room.