[Picture: “Old Guillard brought out a large jug of sparkling wine.”] In the daytime the clear, shrill notes of the bugles come in gusts to the little garden, with the beating of dull and discordant drums, marking the tune in a jerky, singular rhythm, which seems to accompany a cannibal’s war-dance. It is to the sound of these barbarous drums that all the northern races, the Goths, Visigoths, Ostrogoths, are advancing over our magnificent roads of the _Ile-de-France_, the glorious autumn weather dazzling them by the unaccustomed brilliancy of its sun and sky. During this time I live as unobtrusively as possible. I no longer light my fire, in order to avoid the smoke which gives light and life to the roof. I do not even go out into the orchard. I am sure that already the grass is growing across my threshold, and that the invading forest is hemming me closely in. Lastly, by way of precaution, I have killed my cock. That was a cruel sacrifice. I like that abrupt awakening at dawn, that call to life and work, which the cock gives forth to the surrounding country, drawing himself up for the battle with a great flapping of wings. But the Prussians might have heard him . . . Now I have only three or four quiet and silent hens in my poultry-yard, and a few rabbits, who are not likely to betray me. [Picture: . . I have killed my cock] * * * * * [Picture: Robert writing by the light of a small fire] _September_ 21_st_, 22_d_, _and_ 23_d_. I am writing this at night, by the glimmer of a small turf-fire—a sort of brazier burning on the flags in a corner of the room. I have neither oil nor candles. It is raining. On all sides of the Hermitage I hear the water streaming over miles of foliage. The wind blows. My revolver and a gun loaded with buckshot are ready by my side, and I await the return of the ruffians, for they have already been here.