"If you see him, catch and hang him," they shouted, as they scoured
away; "he is a Prussian spy!"

"A Prussian!" the villagers echoed, with a stupid stare--"a Prussian in
France!"

One of the riders looked over his shoulder for a moment. "You fools! do
you not know? We are beaten,--beaten everywhere,--and the Prussian pigs
march on Paris."

The spy was not seen in the Berceau, but the news brought by his
pursuers scared sleep from the eyes of every grown man that night in the
little village. "It is the accursed Empire!" screamed the patriots
of the wine-shop. But the rest of the people were too terrified and
down-stricken to take heed of empires or patriots; they only thought of
Louis and Jean and Andre and Valentin; and they collected round Reine
Allix, who said to them, "My children, for love of money all our
fairest fruits and flowers--yea, even to the best blossoms of our
maidenhood--were sent to be bought and sold in Paris. We sinned therein,
and this is the will of God."

This was all for a time that they heard. It was a place lowly and
obscure enough to be left in peace. The law pounced down on it once or
twice and carried off a few more of its men for army service, and arms
were sent to it from its neighbouring town, and an old soldier of the
First Empire tried to instruct its remaining sons in their use. But he
had no apt pupil except Bernadou, who soon learned to handle a musket
with skill and with precision, and who carried his straight form
gallantly and well, though his words were seldom heard and his eyes were
always sad.