It was half a mile to the village, but down hill all the way, so that
Jules reached the bakery in a very short time.

Several customers were ahead of him, however, and he awaited his turn
nervously. When he left the shop an old lamplighter was going down the
street with torch and ladder, leaving a double line of twinkling lights
in his wake, as he disappeared down the wide "Paris road." Jules watched
him a moment, and then ran rapidly on. For many centuries the old
village of St. Symphorien had echoed with the clatter of wooden shoes on
its ancient cobblestones; but never had foot-falls in its narrow,
crooked streets kept time to the beating of a lonelier little heart.

The officer of Customs, at his window beside the gate that shuts in the
old town at night, nodded in a surly way as the boy hurried past. Once
outside the gate, Jules walked more slowly, for the road began to wind
up-hill. Now he was out again in the open country, where a faint light
lying over the frosty fields showed that the moon was rising.

Here and there lamps shone from the windows of houses along the road;
across the field came the bark of a dog, welcoming his master; two old
peasant women passed him in a creaking cart on their glad way home.

At the top of the hill Jules stopped to take breath, leaning for a
moment against the stone wall. He was faint from hunger, for he had been
in the fields since early morning, with nothing for his midday lunch but
a handful of boiled chestnuts. The smell of the fresh bread tantalized
him beyond endurance. Oh, to be able to take a mouthful,--just one
little mouthful of that brown, sweet crust!