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‘What about our money, will the Prussians take that? Oughtn’t we to tie our sous up in bags and bury them in the ground?’
    The daily journey to the Halles, the market in the avenue de Neuilly, these were things that belonged to the past, and the Blançards lived as best they could by selling country produce to the few folk left in Puteaux and the nearest villages. It was only October and already food was scarce; careless of danger and a possible encounter with the Prussians, Jean Blançard would take his cart every morning and drive round the country roads to bargain with the peasants living in hovels on their own plot of ground, in search of a few overblown cabbages, potatoes run to seed, a dead horse perhaps to sell in portions, or an old sheep.
    Julius set snares to catch birds, he fixed lines on the banks of the Seine below Puteaux in the hope of finding fish.
    Soon it would not be a question of selling meat to feed others, but of finding meat to feed themselves.
    Any day the Prussians might take it into their heads to descend upon Paris, and might not they march through Puteaux, down the wide high road towards the Pont de Neuilly, burning and destroying as they went? ‘Would they kill us?’ asked Julius, ‘we who are not even soldiers and cannot fight?’ And nobody could tell him. Nobody knew how long they must wait, how soon the evening would come.
    They drove in the cart along the high road, Grandpère and Julius, leaving Puteaux and Courbevoie behind them, striking out towards the village of Nanterre over the brow of the hill. The road was rough, the wheels of the cart kept sinking into deep ruts, and there were puddles everywhere, and mud, and from the pallid sky a wet sun shone into the puddles, reflecting a space of blue no larger than a man’s hand, and a loose, straggling cloud.
    ‘Ha! Ha! my beauty,’ called Grandpère, cracking his whip, and the horse flicked his ears and sniffed at the air. It was cold, sharp autumnal weather. Julius blew upon his hands.
    ‘In Nanterre we shall find meat,’ said Grandpère, ‘there is a fellow there who used to own a couple of strong mules. They will make excellent eating, and will fetch a good price in the fortress.’
    ‘Perhaps he won’t want to destroy them,’ said Julius. ‘Who would kill animals that have served well and worked hard?’
    ‘It isn’t a time for sentiment, my darling,’ said Grandpère; ‘when he sees my money he will slaughter everything he owns. I can bargain better than he. He is a peasant, he knows nothing. I shall sell the meat for treble the sum in Puteaux.’
    The cart splashed through the puddles. The sun peered once more through the grey clouds, and shone upon the bare, white head of Grandpère. He smiled, cracking his whip, and sang - swaying from side to side in his seat:
    ‘Bismarck, si tu continues,
De tous tes Prussiens il n’en restera guère;
Bismarck, si tu continues,
De tous tes Prussiens il n’en restera plus.’
    Grandpère loved the sun, the fresh morning and the crisp air.
    ‘When this war is over we’ll amuse ourselves, eh, my Julius? Soon you’ll be a big boy, you’ll go shares in the market. You’re going to be heavy and strong, a real Blançard. Even though I’ll be an old fellow when you grow tall, I’ll show you things. We’ll laugh, won’t we? we’ll trick the world.’
    ‘Yes, Grandpère, my dear.’
    ‘You won’t forget me when I’m good-for-nothing. You’ll come and tell me when you’re angry, when you’re happy, and when you want to run and shout, and when you want to go with women.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It’s mornings like this that are good, Julius. The sun and the cold air. Open your lungs, boy, and breathe. That father of yours is a queer fellow now. He sits with his thoughts and his music, he doesn’t care for this.You must learn to live with your body, my little one, and laugh and sing, and fill yourself and take everything you want. But don’t be a dreamer.’
    ‘I