For many centuries the old village of St.Symphorien had echoed with the clatter of wooden shoes on its ancient cobblestones; but never had foot-falls in its narrow, crooked streets kept time to the beating of a lonelier little heart.
The officer of Customs, at his window beside the gate that shuts in the old town at night, nodded in a surly way as the boy hurried past.

Once outside the gate, Jules walked more slowly, for the road began to wind up-hill.

Now he was out again in the open country, where a faint light lying over the frosty fields showed that the moon was rising.
Here and there lamps shone from the windows of houses along the road; across the field came the bark of a dog, welcoming his master; two old peasant women passed him in a creaking cart on their glad way home.
At the top of the hill Jules stopped to take breath, leaning for a moment against the stone wall.

He was faint from hunger, for he had been in the fields since early morning, with nothing for his midday lunch but a handful of boiled chestnuts.

The smell of the fresh bread tantalized him beyond endurance.