destiny?"

"You've gotten used to this life?"

"Not in the least. I abominate and adore it all in the same breath.
Or, to be more explicit, I admire the men and abhor the military
pictures, the thrilling and sentimental ideas of the warrior with which
the civilian head is so generously crammed. I love military servitude,
and the humble life of the men in the ranks, but I have a genuine
horror of heroes and their sublimity.

"Just look over there," he went on, waving his hand towards a long line
of seated _poilus_ who were peacefully enjoying their pipes, while
wistfully watching the smoke curl upward. "Just look at them, aren't
they splendid? Why they've got faces like the 'Drinkers' in the
Velasquez picture. See that little fellow rolling his cigarette?
Isn't he the image of the Bacchus who forms the centre of the painting?
That's Brunot, and he's thinking about all the god-mothers whose
letters swell out his pockets. He can't make up his mind whether he
prefers the one who lives in Marseilles and who sent him candied
cherries and her photograph; or the one from Laval who keeps him well
supplied with devilled ham which he so relishes. The two men beside
him are Lemire and Lechaptois--both peasants. When they think, it's
only of their farms and their wives. That other little thin chap is a
Parisian bookkeeper. I'd like to bet that he's thinking of his wife,
and only of her. He's wondering if she's faithful to him. It's almost
become an obsession. I've never known such jealousy, it's fairly
killing him.

"That man Ballot, just beyond"--and our friend motioned up the
line--"that man Ballot would give anything to be home behind his
watch-maker's stand. In a moment or so he'll lean over and begin a
conversation with his neighbour Thevenet. They've only one topic, and
it's been the same for two years. It's angling. They haven't yet
exhausted it.

"All of them at bottom are heartily wishing it were over; they've had
enough of it. But they're good soldiers, just as before the war they
were good artisans. The _metier_ is sacred--as are the Family and
Duty. 'The Nation, Country, Honour' are big words for which they have
a certain repugnance.

"'That's all rigmarole that somebody hands you when you've won the
Wooden Cross and a little garden growing over your tummy,' is the way
they put it in their argot. 'The Marseillaise, the Chant du Depart are
all right for the youngsters, and the reviews--and let