When I am there, the forest surrounds me like an ocean, with the swell of the foliage, the ebb and flow of the breezes, the murmuring softness of a calm. On a summer’s afternoon, at the hour of silent and slumbering heat, a bumble-bee comes by regularly, dashes against my half-open window-pane, whose brightness attracts him, then like a rebounding ball goes off, shaking the golden dust from his big wings, and disappears amongst the honey-scented bushes of privet. This bee is my clock. When he passes by I say: “Ah, it is two o’clock.” And I am right . . . It is, in fact, a wonderful nook for work, and where my best pictures have been painted. And how I love it, this old Hermitage! For the last ten years I have been adorning it to the best of my ability. I have brought there what I call my treasures—my books, my sketches, my etchings, and some old armour . . . And now I should have to leave all this, abandon my home, to these robbers. And what for? To go and shut myself up in Paris . . . But as I cannot walk, of what use should I be to them there? They have too many useless mouths to feed already . . . Well, no! Decidedly the fellow is right. We must not go away from here, . . . _Pro aris et focis_! . . . Not being able to defend my country, the least I can do is to defend my hearth. [Picture: Fowl pecking in the yard] * * * * * [Picture: . . the keeper came in to my room.] _September_ 6_th_. This morning the keeper came into my room. He wore his full-dress uniform, as on the 15th of August: green tunic, peaked cap, cross-belt, hunting-knife, and he had an air of importance befitting the solemnity of his appearance. —There is bad news, he said, taking up a position by the side of my bed . . . All the wood-rangers are recalled to Paris in order to be enrolled with the customs officers. We are starting almost immediately.