At last his shaking fingers opened the door. The drum lay outside; the drum, and, on the drum, the gigantic bearskin, bullet-bitten in old fights, moth-marked during long, idle years. He came downstairs in full regimentals. Madame Laplume was talking to the village postmaster at the open door. She ran to meet him. Her eyes were misty, for she remembered last year’s reveille; but there was a ring of gladness in her greeting. “Good morning, grandfather!” she cried, kissing him on both cheeks; “a happy Austerlitz day. There is news, too——” “News?” Dying fires flamed up for a second in his old eyes. “D’Aurelles de Paladines is driving them back,” she said. “We won everywhere yesterday—everywhere. Chanzy has forced the Bavarians back on Orgères. We have taken Guillonville, Terminiers, Monnerville—and—and—where else, Josephine?” “Goniers, Villepain, Faverolles,” little Josephine chimed in, repeating the names glibly, like a well-conned lesson. “And they say the brave General Duerot has broken out of Paris, and is marching to join the Army of the Loire!” “Good!” Monsieur Tuck-of-Drum sat down stiffly, the joints in his long limbs cracking; he held the coffee-cup to his lips, but the coffee danced and splashed out. He jerked the cup down quickly, and brushed a drop from his mustache with an impatient hand. “It is just as I have said,” he cried suddenly and fiercely, springing to his feet. “We have them like trapped rats! Did I not say so, Héloïse? Even the little Josephine has heard me. Listen, Josephine. These Germans, these enemies of our dear France, begin to pay for their folly. They hated us because our great Emperor led us once to all their capitals—to Stuttgart, to Dresden, to Munich, to Berlin—because their kings bowed hats-in-hand before the soldiers of France; because we cut up their country with our swords as I—look you!—cut this bread of mine.” And with nervous hands he sliced white, crust-ringed circles from the roll. “But now—ah, the Emperor, our great Emperor, is dead; and the Marshals and the Grande Armée have marched away. They found us asleep, unready; like rats, like locusts, they swarmed into our cornfields and our vineyards. But we are awake at last! We are ready at last! The revenge begins!” “It begins,” echoed Madame Laplume. “But come, grandfather, your coffee grows cold, and——” “The punishment begins!” he continued, his voice shrill as the neigh of an old war-horse. “Look you!” He held up a gnarled hand. “Here is Duerot, with the troops of Paris. Here”—he raised the other, its knotted fingers stretched out—“are De Paladines, Chanzy, De Sonis, Jauréguiberry, with the Army of the Loire. Now see; the Germans are between them.” He snatched a morsel of the bread he had been cutting and brought his palms together. “The Germans—the Germans——” “You have cut your hand, grandfather,” cried Josephine. He stopped, and looked dumbly at his palm. A splinter of crust had grazed the skin. The bread rolled to the floor.