“They are crushed,” he mumbled, bringing down his heel. “Miscreants! that they should dare to enter France! But they will pay for their folly; ah, they will pay well! I knew; I said it. ‘Wait,’ I said, when they came to us with their long faces and their stories of defeat. ‘France has slept; but she will shake herself and awake.’ _Mon Dieu_, yes. Why I—I who speak, my little Josephine, put a hundred to flight when I was young, with this little drum alone: that is why they call great-grandfather Monsieur Tuck-of-Drum, my dear. See, it is the sun of Austerlitz that shines on the white trees. Sixty-five long years ago—sixty-five long years ago—the great Emperor pinned this cross on my breast; ‘Ah, this is Monsieur Tuck-of-Drum,’ he said, pinching my ear, ‘who beat the charge in the village, and put a hundred to flight.’ That was nothing; we did those things. And again—today—the sun of Austerlitz——” He broke off suddenly as the door opened and a fat old man, with a large, hairless, foolish face—the face of a great baby, still eying the world with wonder—entered the room. He, too, wore the uniform of the Emperor’s Guard. The veterans embraced. “You have heard the news?” cried Laplume. “Ah, it is arranged. Austerlitz day—the day of Austerlitz—sees victory again for France, my dear Hippolyte. Sit down, sit down. Héloïse mixes the salad. Héloïse! Here is Monsieur Bergeret. It has been a struggle, my friend, but we have saved a bottle and a snack for today; we have arranged it, I say.” He sniffed, nudged his comrade and chuckled. A pleasant smell of cooking already pervaded the sitting-room, floating in from the kitchen in the rear. Madame Laplume, who had vanished while Dominique was telling the child of France and its ancient glories, reappeared, with bare and powdery arms; Sergeant Hippolyte saluted, and passed a wavering hand over his foolish chin. Monsieur Tuck-of-Drum, talking garrulously all the while, patted his old comrade’s accoutrements into shape; fastened a button; untwisted a red shoulder-knot; rearranged an ill-adjusted strap. Age was dulling the Sergeant’s brain a little; “he does not wear as well as I,” thought Tuck-of-Drum, with the pathetic pride of age. There was a metallic “tap-tap” and a clatter of sabots on the cobbles of the village street. “Jacques Dufour arrives!” cried Dominique Laplume, and flung the door open with a flourish.