The galleries were something like the cloisters of a
monastery, the corridors of a prison, and the middle sections of a ship.
Their floors were a half yard lower than that of the open spaces which
joined the trenches together. In order that the officers might avoid
so many ups and downs, some planks had been laid, forming a sort of
scaffolding from doorway to doorway.
Upon the approach of their Chief, the soldiers formed themselves in
line, their heads being on a level with the waist of those passing over
the planks. Desnoyers ran his eye hungrily over the file of men. Where
could Julio be? . . .
He noticed the individual contour of the different redoubts. They
all seemed to have been constructed in about the same way, but their
occupants had modified them with their special personal decorations.
The exteriors were always cut with loopholes in which there were
guns pointed toward the enemy, and windows for the mitrailleuses. The
watchers near these openings were looking over the lonely landscape
like quartermasters surveying the sea from the bridge. Within were the
armories and the sleeping rooms--three rows of berths made with planks
like the beds of seamen. The desire for artistic ornamentation which
even the simplest souls always feel, had led to the embellishment of
the underground dwellings. Each soldier had a private museum made with
prints from the papers and colored postcards.
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