Rumor had it that the Prussians were about to enter Rouen.

The members of the National Guard, who for the past two months had been
reconnoitering with the utmost caution in the neighboring woods,
occasionally shooting their own sentinels, and making ready for fight
whenever a rabbit rustled in the undergrowth, had now returned to their
homes. Their arms, their uniforms, all the death-dealing paraphernalia
with which they had terrified all the milestones along the highroad for
eight miles round, had suddenly and marvellously disappeared.

The last of the French soldiers had just crossed the Seine on their way
to Pont-Audemer, through Saint-Sever and Bourg-Achard, and in their rear
the vanquished general, powerless to do aught with the forlorn remnants
of his army, himself dismayed at the final overthrow of a nation
accustomed to victory and disastrously beaten despite its legendary
bravery, walked between two orderlies.

Then a profound calm, a shuddering, silent dread, settled on the city.
Many a round-paunched citizen, emasculated by years devoted to business,
anxiously awaited the conquerors, trembling lest his roasting-jacks or
kitchen knives should be looked upon as weapons.

Life seemed to have stopped short; the shops were shut, the streets
deserted. Now and then an inhabitant, awed by the silence, glided swiftly
by in the shadow of the walls. The anguish of suspense made men even
desire the arrival of the enemy.

In the afternoon of the day following the departure of the French troops,
a number of uhlans, coming no one knew whence, passed rapidly through the
town. A little later on, a black mass descended St. Catherine's Hill,