He is gone. I ought not to be astonished. The wretch was tired of having nothing to kill. After promising to come sometimes at night and knock at my door, he plunged into the shadows, less black than himself. Well, brutal as he was, I regret him. Solitude brings with it, after a time, a feeling of torpor, a numbness of the whole being, which is really unwholesome. Words seem to start fresh thoughts. By dint of talking to this peasant of patriotism and self-sacrifice, I have re-awakened in myself all that I was desirous of inspiring in him. I feel quite differently now. And then my recovery, the sensation of returning strength, which increases from day to day . . . I long for action and battle . . .
November 30th. December 1st and 2nd.
It is bitterly cold. Through the dryness of the earth and atmosphere the cannonading round Paris re-echoes still louder. I have never heard anything to equal it. It must be a real battle. At moments I fancy the sounds draw nearer, for I can make out the platoon-firing and the horrible rending noise of the mitrailleuse. All around here there seems a general commotion, as it were the rebounding sound of the battle. On the road to Melun troops are continually moving. On the road to Corbeil scared despatch-bearers gallop by furiously . . . What can be taking place? . . . In spite of the cold, I go and wander about, seeking the forest paths, where the cannonading is more distinctly heard . . .
At times I have a dream of Paris leaving its imprisoning ramparts, of the French troops arriving here, of the forest of Sénart full of French uniforms, and of I myself joining their ranks to drive out the Prussians and reconquer France . . .
