became confidential and almost emotional. I felt that at last I was really getting on good terms with Leake; every glass of wine made us dislike one another a little less. Thus the proceedings continued until after midnight, while Wilmot became more and more attached to a certain popular song. We sang the chorus over and over again:
Moon, moon, see‑reen‑ly shy‑ning, Don’t go home too soo‑oon; You’ve such a charm about you That we—can’t get—on with‑out you. Da-da-da, de-dum … etc.
The atmosphere of the room had become tropical, for we had all been smoking like chimneys. But Wilmot couldn’t tear himself away from that piano, and while he caressed the keys with lingering affection, the wine-merchant’s wife received I don’t know how many francs and we all wrote our names in her album. From the number of shaky signatures in it I judged that she must have made a handsome profit out of the War.
Out in the white moonlight, Leake and I meandered along an empty street, accompanied by our tipsy shadows. At the door of my billet we shook hands “sholemnly,” and I assured him that he could always rely on me to “blurry well do my damndest for him.” He vanished heavily, and I spent several minutes prodding at the keyhole of the greengrocer’s shop. Once inside the door, my difficulties were almost ended. I remember balancing myself in the dark little shop, which was full of strong-smelling vegetables, and remarking aloud, “Well, old boy, here you are, and now you gotter get up the stairs.” My room was an unventilated cupboard which reeked of onions; the stairs were steep, but my fleabag was on the floor and I fell asleep fully dressed. What with the smell of onions and the bad champagne, I awoke feeling like nothing on earth, and to say that Leake was grumpy at breakfast would be to put it mildly. But we were on the march by nine, in cold bright weather, and by the first halt I was feeling surprisingly clearheaded and alert.