I have only bread enough for two days. I found this out in the morning, on opening the chest where Mother Guillard placed my week’s provisions—six large floury and golden loaves, that she baked for me every Sunday. What shall I do? I have, it is true, an oven and a kneading-trough, but not an atom of flour. Perhaps I should find some at the farm at Champrosay, if Goudeloup has remained there as he intended. But how can I get so far in my present weak condition? Seated on my garden bench in front of my door, I was absorbed in these melancholy thoughts, when I heard the sound of an animal galloping in the keeper’s field. It was Colaquet. Colaquet, generally so lazy, was gambolling round the orchard, kicking up little tufts of grass with his hoofs and rolling over on his back, with a feeling of satisfaction and pleasure in living. In two bounds he came at my call, and leant his head, no longer swollen, but now of normal size, on the wooden trellis; the rapid motion of his long ears, whose language I am beginning to understand, telling me of his happiness at being free and delivered from his pain and infirmity. Lucky Colaquet! he is cured before I am; and while I looked at him with an envious eye, I remembered that there—over there, under the shed—was an old conveyance that Guillard formerly used on fête-days to drive parties of Parisians through the forest. If I harnessed Colaquet, we might go and fetch some flour . . . So I set to work rummaging under the shed. Amongst the rusty pickaxes, hay-rakes, and dilapidated harrows I finally discovered a worm-eaten spring-cart, forgotten and unused, its two shafts lying on the ground. By means of some pieces of rope and a few nails I put it into a tolerable state of repair. It occupied me till the evening; but what an interesting piece of work! I was amused in turning over those old nails, those worn-out pegs. Once or twice I surprised myself by whistling over my work. Pretty cool, considering I was expecting the Prussians . . . Now everything is ready, the cart and the team. To-morrow morning, if in the meanwhile nothing happens, we shall start for Champrosay! [Picture: The old spring-cart] * * * * * [Picture: The farm work-shop] * * * * * [Picture: On the road to Champrosay] _September_ 14_th_. I have made a compact with myself to keep a very exact diary of the strange and terrible life I have been drawn into; if I have many days as exciting and tragic as this, I shall never be able to live through them. My hand shakes, my brain is on fire. However, I must make the attempt . . .