—I, sir? I shall do the same as Goudeloup. Our chiefs have forgotten to leave us any orders. I shall take advantage of that to remain at my post, and watch my woods up to the last moment. When the Prussians come, we will barricade ourselves in the Hermitage; for I suppose, with your bad leg, you will not think of leaving. And then, if we are attacked—well, we will defend ourselves. You will fire through the windows; I shall guard the Pacôme Gate, and Mother Guillard will load the guns . . . Won’t you, mother? . . . [Picture: Robert, after hearing the bad news] Good fellow! It warmed my heart to hear him. In spite of his sixty years, the Indian, as they call him about here, with his high stature, wide shoulders, and bright eyes full of mischief and life, is still a fine-looking soldier. I thought, as I looked at him, that with such a companion there might indeed be something to do. By lying in ambush on the outskirts of the forest he knows so thoroughly, we could demolish a few passing Prussians. But then the sensation of my weakness, of my useless condition, suddenly came back to me and overwhelmed me. After the keeper and his wife had taken leave of me, I remained all alone, seated on my bench, buried in thought. What a state of misery is mine! To feel that craving for action and vital energy that comes on at the approach of danger, and not to be able to take ten steps in my garden. How much longer will this last? The doctor says I must expect at least two months of it. Two months! Ah! how dreadful . . . The air was getting chilly, my leg was hurting me. I went in and dined sadly. After dinner the keeper came—as he has done every evening since my accident—to smoke a pipe with me. He is more than ever determined to remain at the Hermitage. While he was telling me all his plans and schemes of defence, I heard in the distance, through the open window, the usual sounds of twilight; the wheels creaking in the ruts, the rumbling of the train, the rustling of the leaves in the thickets; and at moments another sound, as of all these blended together and increasing in volume, seemed to rise from the ground, following the course of the river and little hills on the horizon, to grow gradually louder and louder. It was like the tramp of an army on the march, hurrying on in the fading light to find their halting-place, while the first rays of moonlight fall on the barrels of the guns and the gilded spikes of the helmets . . . Suddenly a dull report on a level with the earth made us start. Mother Guillard, who was clearing away my modest repast, felt the pile of plates she was carrying shake in her hands. —They have blown up the bridge at Corbeil! . . . said the keeper.