true, she is looking at me. See
how she is looking at me!"

Then he caught the doctor by the coat, entreating him to remain there,
assuring him that he was mistaken, that she was not dead, and that he
could save her if he only would. Pascal resisted gently, saying, in his
kindly voice: "I can do nothing for her, others are waiting for me. Let
go, my poor child; she is quite dead."

At last Silvere released his hold and again fell back. Dead! Dead! Still
that word, which rang like a knell in his dazed brain! When he was alone
he crept up close to the corpse. Miette still seemed to be looking
at him. He threw himself upon her, laid his head upon her bosom, and
watered it with his tears. He was beside himself with grief. He pressed
his lips wildly to her, and breathed out all his passion, all his soul,
in one long kiss, as though in the hope that it might bring her to life
again. But the girl was turning cold in spite of his caresses. He felt
her lifeless and nerveless beneath his touch. Then he was seized with
terror, and with haggard face and listless hanging arms he remained
crouching in a state of stupor, and repeating: "She is dead, yet she is
looking at me; she does not close her eyes, she sees me still."

This fancy was very sweet to him. He remained there perfectly still,
exchanging a long look with Miette, in whose glance, deepened by death,
he still seemed to read the girl's lament for her sad fate.

In the meantime, the cavalry were still sabring the fugitives over the
Nores plain; the cries of the wounded and the galloping of the horses
became more distant, softening like music wafted from afar through the
clear air. Silvere was no longer conscious of the fighting. He did
not even see his cousin, who mounted the slope again and crossed the
promenade. Pascal, as he passed along, picked up Macquart's carbine
which Silvere had thrown down; he knew it, as he had seen it hanging
over aunt Dide's chimney-piece, and he thought he might as well save it
from the hands of the victors. He had scarcely entered the Hotel de la
Mule-Blanche, whither a large number of the wounded had been taken, when
a band of insurgents, chased by the soldiers like a herd of cattle, once
more rushed into the esplanade. The man with the sabre had fled; it was
the last contingents from the country who were being exterminated. There
was a terrible massacre. In vain did Colonel Masson and the prefect,
Monsieur de Bleriot, overcome by pity, o