"It is we, from the village of Charmes," shouted Marc, in his stentorian voice.
The sentinels approached to examine them, and then they passed on their way.
The farm was silent; a sentry, his musket over his arm, was pacing before the granary, where about thirty partisans were asleep upon the straw. At the sight of these great dark roofs, the stables and outhouses belonging to the old building where she had spent her youth, where her father and grandfather had led their tranquil laborious lives in peace, and which she was now about to abandon, perhaps forever, Catherine felt a terrible wrenching at her heart; but no word escaped her. Springing from the sledge, as in other days when she returned from marketing, she said: "Come, Louise, here we are at home, thank God."
Old Duchêne pushed open the door, exclaiming: "Is that you, Madame Lefèvre?"
"Yes, it is I. Any news from Jean-Claude?"
"No, Madame."
They entered the large kitchen. Some cinders were still smouldering on the hearth, and in the dark, under the broad chimney, was sitting Jérome of St. Quirin, with his big horsehair hood, his great stick between his knees, and his carbine leaning against the wall.
"Good-day, Jérome," said the old farm-wife.
"Good-day, Catherine," replied the grave chief of the Grosmann. "Have you come from the Donon?"
"Yes: things are going badly, my poor Jérome. The 'kaiserlichs' were attacking the farm when we left the plateau. Nothing but white uniforms was to be seen on every side. They were already beginning to cross the breastworks."