The veterans exchanged glances. “What the devil—” began Laplume. They flung open the door and stepped into the village street. Two or three people, white-faced, had stopped to listen. The distant guns roared again. What were they doing there—then—in that direction? Tuck-of-Drum looked puzzled, doubtful. This day of all the year, this great day of his life, was bound up with all his thoughts; one hope, one conviction, possessed him, and had shone steadily through all the gloom of the last few months. The day of Austerlitz would see the eagle turn upon its foes; the sun of Austerlitz would look down upon the invading army scattered like chaff before the wind—crushed, rather, like grain between the two millstones, the armies of Paris and the Loire. The previous day’s successes confirmed him. But what were the guns doing there? The fighting should be far beyond Orgères by this time. He beat down a flicker of uncertainty. “Bah, it goes well,” he muttered. “They make their last stand. Come, comrades, let us drink to Chanzy and the Army of the Loire.” Poor, foolish Bergeret soon fell asleep, huddled in his chair; but the wine put fire into the veins of his comrades. Pierre and Josephine listened round-eyed as they talked of bivouacs and camp-fires; of ancient comrades and conquered cities; of Austerlitz and the heights of Pratzen, and the Menitz Lake. “Sixty-five years ago at this very hour”—so the talk went on. “Do you remember? Have you forgotten?” They argued, they shouted, in their old voices that broke from gruffness into shrill quavers, ludicrous under other circumstances, but now pathetic. They moved bottles, glasses, salt-cellars, to illustrate the disposition of troops; in the blue smoke-clouds the children, drinking in their words, could almost catch the glint of the Cuirassiers’ breastplates, the glittering gold-lacing of the Hussars, the rise and fall of green epaulets as the voltigeurs moved into line, the yellow facings of Oudinot’s Grenadiers, the clamorous mêlée of horse and foot. They discussed the present fighting, the mistakes of generals; and here Héloïse, eager as they for the success of the cause which had cost her husband’s life, joined in with the names and dates and figures at her tongue’s tip. In the distance the sullen guns were booming. “If I were with them!” sighed Tuck-of-Drum. “They had no room for the old soldier; yet I can beat a charge as well as ever! I—I who speak, could fire a musket with the best of them!” “Grandfather volunteered,” piped Josephine. “Yes,” said Héloïse, eying the old man proudly; “but they wanted him to take care of us. ‘You must look after the women and children for us, Monsieur Laplume,’ said the officer. ‘You have done your share for France in the field. You know what our great Emperor wrote, “It will be sufficient for you to say, ‘I was at the battle of Austerlitz,’ to authorize the reply, ‘Behold, a brave man.’”’”