injured, and on looking more attentively was
astounded to recognize in her his sister Henriette. For near a minute
he stood gazing at her in open-mouthed amazement, and finally it was
she who spoke, without any appearance of surprise, as if she found the
meeting entirely natural.

"They shot him at Bazeilles--and I was there. Then, in the hope that
they might at least let me have his body, I had an idea--"

She did not mention either Weiss or the Prussians by name; it seemed to
her that everyone must understand. Maurice did understand. It made his
heart bleed; he gave a great sob.

"My poor darling!"

When, about two o'clock, Henriette recovered consciousness, she found
herself at Balan, in the kitchen of some people who were strangers to
her, her head resting on a table, weeping. Almost immediately, however,
she dried her tears; already the heroic element was reasserting
itself in that silent woman, so frail, so gentle, yet of a spirit so
indomitable that she could suffer martyrdom for the faith, or the love,
that was in her. She knew not fear; her quiet, undemonstrative courage
was lofty and invincible. When her distress was deepest she had summoned
up her resolution, devoting her reflections to how she might recover her
husband's body, so as to give it decent burial. Her first project
was neither more nor less than to make her way back to Bazeilles, but
everyone advised her against this course, assuring her that it would
be absolutely impossible to get through the German lines. She therefore
abandoned the idea, and tried to think of someone among her acquaintance
who would afford her the protection of his company, or at least assist
her in the necessary preliminaries. The person to whom she determined
she would apply was a M. Dubreuil, a cousin of hers, who had been
assistant superintendent of the refinery at Chene at the time her
husband was employed there; Weiss had been a favorite of his; he would
not refuse her his assistance. Since the time, now two years ago, when
his wife had inherited a handsome fortune, he had been occupying a
pretty villa, called the Hermitage, the terraces of which could be seen
skirting the hillside of a suburb of Sedan, on the further side of the
Fond de Givonne. And thus it was toward the Hermitage that she was now
bending her steps, compelled at every moment to pause before some fresh
obstacle, continually menaced with being knocked down and trampled to
death.

Maurice, to whom