_September_ 20_th_. From the four corners of the horizon, in the murmur of the distant road, which the passing wind quickly snatches up and bears to my ears, there is a ceaseless and confused rumbling, a noise as of the heavy and monotonous sound of waves, which, enveloping the whole forest, slowly flows on towards Paris, to die away at the point where the wide roads are lost in the immense encompassing zone. Till now the inundating masses have spared me, and here I remain cowering in the Hermitage, listening to the advancing tide, like a shipwrecked man on a rock surrounded by the sea. [Picture: Cavalry patrols close by] Luckily for me, if the country is invaded, it is not yet regularly occupied by the troops. They pass through and do not make any stay. Nevertheless, two or three times I have heard at night the cavalry patrols skirt the walls of the Hermitage. Often, when the shooting season was near, the forest rangers would thus pass by, pausing for an instant under the gateway to call out a loud “Good-night” to the keeper’s little home. The dogs would bark and sniff at the kennel railings, then a door opened, and old Guillard brought out a large jug of sparkling wine, in which a ray of moonlight danced, and without dismounting they drank it down. How different from these ghostly patrols, whose very approach makes my heart beat! They pass by in silence. Only from time to time the clink of a sword, the neigh of a horse, a few low-spoken words in a harsh and barbarous language, jar on the stillness of the air. This effectually drives away sleep for the rest of the night.