The Hermitage, September 3rd.
It is six weeks yesterday since I broke my leg. It happened on the very day war was declared. While M. de Grammont was exciting so much tumult and enthusiasm in the Senate, I myself, on returning from net-fishing in the Seine, stumbled over a stake hidden in the grass at the edge of the river, and was brought home to my Hermitage in the forest of Snart in a woodcutter’s cart . . .
I went out this morning for the first time after fifty days of fever and suffering, increased by the news of the war. I had nightmares of distant battles, and the sinister despatches from Forbach and Reischhoffen remain mixed up in my mind with the pain of my wound, the heat of the plaster casing, and that restless inactivity which is the most cruel of all tortures. At last it is over! After having seen nothing for so long but the tops of the trees, and those great stretches of blue sky of which the monotony is only broken by passing wings, I felt quite happy at putting my feet to the ground and getting down my stairs with faltering steps. But how weak I was! My head swam round. From having remained so long in the same position, my leg had forgotten its proper balance and functions. It seemed no longer part of myself, as if I were no longer master of it. However, with slow steps, and the extreme nervousness which augments one’s weakness, I was able to get to the poultry-yard and push open its little latticed door, half buried in the tall grass. Even this gave me a thrill of pleasure! During my absence, my neighbour, the keeper’s wife, has taken good care of all this little family, who watch me with an astonished, bright, and familiar gaze. The rabbits come tumbling over each other to the edge of their hutches, with their ears pricked up and quivering. The hens go on with their ceaseless pecking in the grass, making sharp sounds like those of little pickaxes. The cock, more demonstrative, flaps his large wings with a resounding “cock-a-doodle-do.”
—Read that, Mr. Robert . . . said the good man.
And drawing from beneath his thick velveteen waistcoat a copy of the National, crumpled and awkwardly folded by hands little accustomed to deal with papers, he held it out to me with an air of dismay. On the first sheet, bordered in black, were the sinister words: “The French army has capitulated.” I could not read any farther . . .
. . . Dazed, with closed eyes, for the space of five minutes I seemed to see nothing but those few words, surrounded by flashes of light and colour, as if I had read them on a white wall in the full glare of the sun. Alas! there was therefore no hope. The last barrier had broken down. It was the invasion, the mighty one . . . The keeper thinks that in eight days the Prussians will be here.
—Ah, my dear sir, you should see the block on the roads. Between this and Paris there is a mob of cattle and vehicles. Every one is packing up and flying. Champrosay is empty; Farmer Goudeloup is the only person who will not hear of leaving. He has sent away his wife and children, loaded his two guns, and is ready.