September 20th.
From the four corners of the horizon, in the murmur of the distant road, which the passing wind quickly snatches up and bears to my ears, there is a ceaseless and confused rumbling, a noise as of the heavy and monotonous sound of waves, which, enveloping the whole forest, slowly flows on towards Paris, to die away at the point where the wide roads are lost in the immense encompassing zone. Till now the inundating masses have spared me, and here I remain cowering in the Hermitage, listening to the advancing tide, like a shipwrecked man on a rock surrounded by the sea.
Luckily for me, if the country is invaded, it is not yet regularly occupied by the troops. They pass through and do not make any stay. Nevertheless, two or three times I have heard at night the cavalry patrols skirt the walls of the Hermitage. Often, when the shooting season was near, the forest rangers would thus pass by, pausing for an instant under the gateway to call out a loud “Good-night” to the keeper’s little home. The dogs would bark and sniff at the kennel railings, then a door opened, and old Guillard brought out a large jug of sparkling wine, in which a ray of moonlight danced, and without dismounting they drank it down. How different from these ghostly patrols, whose very approach makes my heart beat! They pass by in silence. Only from time to time the clink of a sword, the neigh of a horse, a few low-spoken words in a harsh and barbarous language, jar on the stillness of the air. This effectually drives away sleep for the rest of the night.
September 21st, 22d, and 23d.
I am writing this at night, by the glimmer of a small turf-fire—a sort of brazier burning on the flags in a corner of the room. I have neither oil nor candles. It is raining. On all sides of the Hermitage I hear the water streaming over miles of foliage. The wind blows. My revolver and a gun loaded with buckshot are ready by my side, and I await the return of the ruffians, for they have already been here.