. . . This morning the Prince of Saxony’s staff had a large shooting-party in the forest. On hearing the firing so near me, I was seized with a terrible anxiety. I thought it was the arrival of some French advanced-guard; but from the windows of the studio overlooking the woods, I saw between the leafless branches, crowds of beaters wearing the Saxon forage-caps running and shouting through the thickets, while plumed and gilded sportsmen watched at every turn of the drives. In the circle round the _Great Oak_ an enormous bivouac-fire blazed in front of a tent. Here, called by a flourish of trumpets, the shooters came to breakfast. I heard the clinking of glasses, the uncorking of bottles, and the cheering of the revellers. Then the slaughter of deer and pheasants recommenced. Ah! if old Guillard had been there! he who kept such an account of his game, watched over his coveys and his rabbit-holes, knew the favourite haunts of the deer. How he would have grieved to see this sacrilege! The bewildered birds knew not where to seek safety from the cruel guns. The startled hares and rabbits ran under the legs of the sportsmen, and in the midst of all the confusion a wounded deer took refuge in the courtyard of the Hermitage. The eyes of hunted animals have a look of piteous astonishment which is truly heart-rending. This one excited my compassion, pressing against the low wall round the well, sniffing the air, and pawing the ground with its little bleeding feet. My indignation redoubled against the plundering race that swarmed over vanquished France with the voracity of locusts, destroying its vineyards, its houses, its cornfields, its forests, and, when the country was laid bare, exterminating even the game, leaving nothing alive. [Picture: “I heard the clinking of glasses.”] I shall never forget that day’s sport in the midst of the war, under that dark, lowering sky, with the landscape whitened with hoar-frost, and the glitter of the gold on the helmets and the hunting-horns passing beneath the branches; while the galloping of the horses, the who-hoops of the men, reminded me of the Black Huntsman in the German ballads. At dusk, lines of carts came to gather up from the edge of the roads all the wounded and dying game. It was like the evening after a battle. [Picture: Taking home the day’s spoils] * * * * * [Picture: Depressed troops after the capitulation.] _January_ 19_th_. …They have fought all day under the walls of Paris. But the noise of the mitrailleuses was not so distinct as on the 2nd of December. There was something in the sound of that distant battle which gave me the impression of lassitude and discouragement. _January_ 30_th_. …All is over. Paris has capitulated. The armistice is signed.