The next day the same party returned. I understood by that, they had not mentioned their windfall, and I was a little reassured. However, I am a complete prisoner. I dare not stir from the principal room. Near at hand, in a little wood-shed, I have fastened up Colaquet, whose galloping might have betrayed me. The poor animal patiently bears his captivity, sleeps part of the day, and at times gives himself a good shake, surprised at the loss of his freedom . . . At dusk the Prussians depart, more intoxicated than on the evening before. To-day I have seen no one. But the cask is not yet empty, and I expect them again. [Picture: Plundered wine-barrels] * * * * * [Picture: Prussians firing on Paris] _September_ 24_th_. . . . This morning a furious cannonading is taking place. They are fighting before Paris. The siege is begun. It has given me a feeling of pain and anger impossible to describe. They are firing on Paris, the wretches! It is the intellect of the whole world that they attack. Oh, why am I not there with the others? . . . Instantaneously all yesterday’s apprehensions have vanished. I became ashamed of my mole-like existence. For the last week I have drunk nothing but the water from the cistern, but now, I hardly know wherefore, I went out on purpose to fill my jug at the cloister well, and it seemed to do me good to run some kind of risk. I looked into the Guillards’ house as I passed by, and my anger increased at the sight of this humble home ruthlessly pillaged, the furniture destroyed and burnt, the window-panes broken. I could not help thinking of the fate of Paris if they enter it . . . [Picture: Robert peering through his window] I had just closed my door when I heard footsteps in the enclosure. It was one of those rascals who came the other day, the identical one who had so long rummaged at my lock. He looked if there was any wine left in the cask, and then, having filled his flask, began drinking, sprawling at full length on the stone bench, his head resting on his hands. He sang while drinking; his young fresh voice rang through the cloister with a song about the month of May, in which the words—_Mein lieb_, _lieb Mai_—were constantly repeated. He was just opposite my attic window, within easy reach of my revolver. I looked at him for a long time, asking myself if I should kill him. In the direction of Paris the cannon still thundered, filling my heart with terrible anguish . . . After all, perhaps by killing this fellow I should be saving some of my own people now fighting on the ramparts . . . [Picture: Soldier drinking and singing]