—There is bad news, he said, taking up a position by the side of my bed . . . All the wood-rangers are recalled to Paris in order to be enrolled with the customs officers. We are starting almost immediately.
Honest old Guillard! He appeared somewhat agitated while talking to me, and I was myself rather disturbed by the sudden announcement of this departure. I hurriedly dressed, and we went downstairs. On the road below was the head-keeper, with about twenty foresters and keepers—the whole of the staff on duty in the forest. Then came the women, children, and pointers, and two large carts laden with furniture, rabbit-hutches, and chickens tied up by the legs. The door of the house was wide open, and Mother Guillard moved to and fro inside, seeking what she must leave or take, as the conveyances were full, and the first-comers had taken up all the available space. The perplexity of the poor housewife was a sight to see, as she ran from one piece of furniture to another, dragging a heavy cupboard to the door, then leaving it there, forgetting the most useful things, but lading herself with those of no value, except that they were souvenirs: the old clock with its glass shade, some marvellous portraits, a hunting-horn, a distaff, all of them covered with dust—that excellent dust that clings to family relics, and of which each particle speaks of youth and the happy days gone by.
—I trust you are not going to remain here, Mr. Robert, the good woman called out as she crossed the orchard . . . You shall be put on a cart.
And in order to convince me more thoroughly:
—In the first place, if you remain here, who will cook for you?
In reality the good creatures were rather ashamed of leaving me behind. Their departure, although involuntary, seemed to them somewhat of a betrayal on their part. I tried to reassure them on my account, and to reassure myself at the same time. After all, who knows? The Prussians may not come so far. Moreover, the Hermitage is in the heart of the forest, and out of the line of march. There was therefore not the slightest danger to be apprehended. At most a few days of solitude, and that did not alarm me.
Seeing me so thoroughly determined, the keeper pressed my hand.
—Good luck, Mr. Robert . . . My wife will leave you our keys. You will find wine and potatoes in the cellar. Take what you choose. We will settle on our return home . . . And now, good mother, let us start; and above all, you know what I said to you; try not to cry.
She, however, nearly broke down. On turning the key for the last time in the lock, her hand shook. She compressed her lips . . . At that moment a formidable hee-haw! echoed through the Hermitage. The keeper and his wife looked at each other in consternation.
—It is Colaquet! . . . What is to become of him?