At luncheon Madame Guix announced that Yvonne was better. Far from
well, but better. That was a load off my mind.

The mother of the poor little infant we had buried was peacefully
slumbering on a cot in the hospital, and presently Leon came in to say
that old Cesar had put his hoof on the ground for the first time in four
days. Bravo! I felt much relieved.

And still the carts rolled down the valley, their noise echoing between
the hills. To-day there was no respite: right on through the heat of
noon they rumbled past, thicker and faster it seemed to me.

"Bother them!" I thought. "They make so much noise that we couldn't
hear the cannon if it were only a mile distant." And hoping that
perhaps I might seek some assurance from that sound, I was about to set
off for the highest spot in the park to listen. At the door, however, I
was accosted by one of the two men who, for several days had been
bundling my hay in the stable lofts. He pleaded illness. Would I pay
him and let him go? He would come back to-morrow and finish if he felt
better.

As there was nothing unusual in his request, I settled his account and
told him to go and rest. I now know that he was a German spy, and have
recently learned that a fortnight later he was caught and shot at
Villers-Cotterets.

I wonder what possessed me to make that long weary climb. Evidently I
found out what I wanted to know, but the news was anything but
reassuring. I heard the cannon distinctly: so distinctly that I was a