eration,
succeeded by a high fever, which exhausted all Jean's strength. He had
never in his life been reduced to a condition of such debility: his
recovery promised to be a work of time, and faithful Henriette resumed
her position as nurse and companion in the little chamber, where winter
with icy breath now began to make its presence felt. It was early
November, already the east wind had brought on its wings a smart flurry
of snow, and between those four bare walls, on the uncarpeted floor
where even the tall, gaunt old clothes-press seemed to shiver with
discomfort, the cold was extreme. As there was no fireplace in the room
they determined to set up a stove, of which the purring, droning murmur
assisted to brighten their solitude a bit.

The days wore on, monotonously, and that first week of the relapse
was to Jean and Henriette the dreariest and saddest in all their long,
unsought intimacy. Would their suffering never end? were they to hope
for no surcease of misery, the danger always springing up afresh? At
every moment their thoughts sped away to Maurice, from whom they had
received no further word. They were told that others were getting
letters, brief notes written on tissue paper and brought in by
carrier-pigeons. Doubtless the bullet of some hated German had slain
the messenger that, winging its way through the free air of heaven, was
bringing them their missive of joy and love. Everything seemed to retire
into dim obscurity, to die and be swallowed up in the depths of the
premature winter. Intelligence of the war only reached them a long time
after the occurrence of events, the few newspapers that Doctor Dalichamp
still continued to supply them with were often a week old by the time
they reached their hands. And their dejection was largely owing to their
want of information, to what they did not know and yet instinctively
felt to be the truth, to the prolonged death-wail that, spite of all,
came to their ears across the frozen fields in the deep silence that lay
upon the country.

One morning the doctor came to them in a condition of deepest
discouragement. With a trembling hand he drew from his pocket a Belgian
newspaper and threw it on the bed, exclaiming:

"Alas, my friends, poor France is murdered; Bazaine has played the
traitor!"

Jean, who had been dozing, his back supported by a couple of pillows,
suddenly became wide-awake.

"What, a traitor?"

"Yes, he has surrendered Metz and the army. It i