They entered the large room--a high and spacious apartment wainscoted with wood to the ceiling, with its oak closets and their shining clasps, its iron stove opening into the kitchen, its old clock counting the seconds in its walnut-wood case, and the leathern arm-chair, worn and used by ten generations of aged men. Jean-Claude never went into this room without its bringing back to his remembrance Catherine's grandfather, whom he seemed still to see, with his white head, sitting behind the oven in the dark. "Well?" demanded the old dame, offering a chair to the old shoemaker, who was just putting his pack down on the table. "Well, from Gaspard the tidings are good; the boy is in good health. He has had hardships. All the better: it will be the making of him. But for the rest, Catherine, it is bad. The war! the war!" He shook his head, and the old woman, her lips pressed, sat down facing him, upright in the armchair, her eyes attentively fastened on him. "So things look badly--decidedly--we shall have the war among us?" "Yes, Catherine, from day to day we may expect to see the allies in our mountains." "I thought so. I was sure of it; but speak, Jean-Claude." Hullin, then, his elbows on his knees, his red ears between his hands, and lowering his voice, began to relate all he had seen: the clearing of everything around the town, the placing of batteries on the ramparts, the proclamation of the state of siege, the cart-loads of wounded on the great square, his meeting with the old sergeant at Wittmann's, and the story of the campaign. From time to time he paused, and the old mistress of the farm blinked her eyes slowly, as though to impress more deeply the various circumstances on her mind. When Jean-Claude told about the wounded, the good woman murmured softly--"Gaspard has then escaped it all!" Then, at the end of this mournful tale, there was a long silence, and both looked at each other without pronouncing a word. How many reflections, how many bitter feelings filled their souls! After some seconds, Catherine recovering from these terrible thoughts--"You see, Jean-Claude," said she, in a serious tone. "Yégof was not wrong." "Certainly, certainly, he was not wrong," replied Hullin; "but what does that prove? A madman, who goes from village to village, who descends into Alsace, and from thence to Lorraine--who wanders from right to left--it would be very astonishing if he saw nothing, and if he did not sometimes tell the truth in his madness. Everything gets muddled in his head, and others believe they understand what he does not understand himself. But what of these wild stories, Catherine? The Austrians are upon us. It only concerns us to know if we shall allow them to pass, or if we shall have courage to defend ourselves."