I read a little, and have even tried to paint. It was a few mornings ago, in the light of a beautiful red sun, shining through the air thick with mist; under the shed was a heap of apples, tempting me by their lovely colouring of all shades, from the tender green of young leaves to the ardent glow of autumnal foliage. But I was not able to work for long. In a few minutes the sky became overcast. It was raining in torrents. And large flocks of wild geese, with outstretched necks and beating against the wind, passed over the house, announcing a hard winter and the approach of snow by the white down shaken from their wings. [Picture: Robert working on a picture] * * * * * [Picture: Wild geese over the house] * * * * * [Picture: Deserted roads in Champrosay] _The same month_ . . . To-day I made a long expedition to Champrosay. Reassured by the stillness around me, I harnessed Colaquet in good time, and we started. Failing the sight of a human face, I longed to gaze on roads and houses. [Picture: Damaged door in house] I found the country as deserted and silent, and far more dreary than before. The Prussians have only passed through, but they have left their mark everywhere. It seemed the very picture of an Algerian village after a swarm of locusts, a bare, devastated, devoured, and riddled scene; the houses with doors and windows all wide open, even to the little iron gates of the kennels and the latticed shutters of the rabbit-hutches. I went into some of the houses . . . Our peasants are rather like the Arabs. They are seen in the fields, in the courtyards, on their thresholds, but they do not often admit a Parisian inside their doors. Now I could thoroughly search into these unknown lives, these forsaken homes. Their habits still clung to them, and could be traced in the mantelpieces dark with soot, the hanging ropes in the courtyards where the washing is dried, the now empty nails driven into the walls, and on the walnut table, by the marks idly cut with a knife, and the notches made between each mouthful. All those village households were alike—I came upon one, however, that possessed one luxury more than the others—a parlour, or at least what was intended for a parlour. In a small brick-floored room behind the kitchen, a green paper had been put up, coloured glass had been let into the window, and a pair of gilt fire-dogs, a round tea-table, and a large arm-chair covered with worn chintz, had been placed in it. The ambition of a peasant’s lifetime could be felt there. Certainly that man had said to himself, “When I shall be old, when I shall have slaved and laboured hard, I will become a _bourgeois_. I will have a parlour like the mayor, and a comfortable arm-chair to sit in.” Poor devil! They have made a fine mess of his parlour!