At the crossroads, the curé halted and, standing on the steps of the cross with its carven figure of the Redeemer, looked over his little band, and raising his hand blessed them in a trembling voice, then in a command, ringing out strong and clear like that of a soldier, set them in motion once more on the road to safety.
All at once Le Muet halted. What was he doing? He who had no human kin had left behind him the one thing he loved: his dog. His brain was confused by the excitement of the day, otherwise he would not have forgotten how often he had been sought out and found by the faithful creature. He looked in front of him. The company of refugees was just turning the corner. He must find his dog. Surely Monsieur the curé would forgive him; besides, with his long legs, he could easily catch up. Resolutely he turned on his heel and trudged back the way he had come.
As he passed through the village square, from an open door came a tempting odor of cooking, and with a sly grunt he stepped inside, filled a bowl from the soup pot and sat down. One must eat, whatever comes to pass, and it is easier to die with a full stomach than an empty one.
He had just sopped up the last drop of cabbage soup with an end of loaf when, turning his eyes to the open door, he was amazed to see a couple of horsemen dismounting in front of it. As if they knew their way, they tethered their horses to a post and strode into the cottage.
Le Muet rose to his feet, and the intruders covered him with their rifles. Suddenly one of them broke into a grin and, turning, spoke to his companion. They lowered their rifles, and the first comer nodded in a friendly fashion to Le Muet and offered him his hand.
In a daze Le Muet accepted the courtesy. What a surprise! Here, in a Uhlan uniform, was the peddler, Woerth, who had travelled the countryside for many a year. He had not been seen for a long time, and now—Le Muet grinned in response. The peddler had done him many a kindness, and tramped the woods with him more times than once: a sharp-faced, thin man, with white-lashed blue eyes.
He sat down at the table again as they dipped their cans into the soup pot and divided the loaf. With a careless air the peddler knocked in the head of the cider cask, and filled three glasses. Le Muet began to feel at his ease. After all, he knew the peddler, and if this was war, surely it was not an affair of bloodshed; one sat at the table with an old friend and drank cider. He could not understand what they were saying, but he could discover nothing to be afraid of in their looks.