Eight o'clock
What a right pair of Provencal people we are . Back in Paris , we miss our Alpilles and the smell of wild lavender . Right here and right now , bang in the middle of Provence , we miss our barracks , and everything that reminds us of it is so dear to us ! ... * * * * * Eight o'clock strikes in the village . Pistolet , drumsticks at the ready , starts on his way back ... . He can be heard , playing non-stop , coming down from the woods ... . Me -- I lie down in the grass , overwhelmed with nostalgia .