"Ah, those that are dead are very happy. But only sometimes, not
always--voila!"
We have passed the last of the houses. In the country, beyond the
end of the street, the fighting convoy and the regimental convoy
have settled themselves, the traveling kitchens and jingling carts
that follow them with odds and ends of equipment, the Red Cross
wagons, the motor lorries, the forage carts, the baggage-master's
gig. The tents of drivers and conductors swarm around the vehicles.
On the open spaces horses lift their metallic eyes to the sky's
emptiness, with their feet on barren earth. Four poilus are setting
up a table. The open-air smithy is smoking. This heterogeneous and
swarming city, planted in ruined fields whose straight or winding
ruts are stiffening in the heat, is already broadly valanced with
rubbish and dung.
On the edge of the camp a big, white-painted van stands out from the
others in its tidy cleanliness. Had it been in the middle of a fair,
one would have said it was the stylish show where one pays more than
at the others.
This is the celebrated "stomatological" van that Blaire was asking
about. In point of fact, Blaire is there in front, looking at it.
For some long time, no doubt, he has been going round it and gazing.
Field-hospital orderly Sambremeuse, of the Division, returning from
errands, is climbing the portable stair of painted wood which leads
to the van door. In his arms he carries a bulky box of biscuits, a
loaf of fancy bread, and a bottle of champagne.
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