"This is no time for sprees," wept Julia.

"Father Poupard," admonished his irate mate, brandishing a spade,
"Father Poupard, mind what I say!"

And then in a more moderate tone, but which was distinctly audible some
thirty yards away, "I've put a bottle into your lunch basket. You won't
need to buy anything more."

There was a distinct emphasis on the word _buy_, which told me that
mother Poupard, evidently accustomed to her husband's ways, had provided
plentifully for his journey but had carefully emptied his pockets before
he started.

I went back to my preserves, but as the day wore on the lack of all
communication with the outside world began to prey on me. Towards four
o'clock I took my bicycle and started down to Charly. A quarter of a
mile from our gate, in front of the town hall, a mason had driven two
huge posts, into the ground on either side of the road, and was swinging
a heavy chain between them.

I looked askance at the schoolmaster who stood in the doorway surveying
the work. He explained that he had received instructions to the effect
that all passers-by unknown to this village were to be stopped and asked
for their papers. The men and boys who remained were to take turns
mounting guard, and thus to help to eradicate the circulation of spies.
Two suspicious motors and a man on a bicycle had already been signaled.
Should they appear and fail to produce their papers, immediate arrest
would follow. Should they offer the slightest opposition or attempt
escape, the sentinels had orders to shoot.