a had turned sideways on the seat,
and her face was hidden in her arms folded on the back of it. She
seemed to be weeping. I stood for a minute or two in indecision. Then,
remembering how she disliked me, went slowly on to the stable, and
found my horse.

Chapter XXV

Paris Again

"Le courage commence l'oeuvre et ... "

The same afternoon John Turner and I quitted Hopton. I with a heavy
enough heart, which, _d'ailleurs_, I always carried when leaving
Lucille. There was, however, work to be done, and a need for instant
action is one of the surest antidotes to sad thought. I was engaged,
moreover, in affairs intimately concerning Lucille. A man, it appears,
whose heart is taken from him, is best employed in doing something for
the woman who has it. No other occupation will fully satisfy him.

We journeyed to London, and there took the night train to Paris,
crossing the Channel in a boat crowded with Frenchmen, who had
contented themselves with deploring their country's evil day from
across seas. As we drove through the streets of Paris in the early
morning, John Turner sat looking out of the window of a cab. Never,
surely, has a city been so wasted and destroyed.

"The d----d fools; the d----d fools!" my companion muttered under his
breath. And I believe the charred walls of each ruined landmark burnt
into his soul.

I left John Turner in his rooms in the Avenue d'Antan, where
everything seemed to be in order, and drove across to the Quartier St.
Germain. It was my intention to dwell in the Hotel Clericy until that
house could be made habitable for the ladies. The _concierge_, I
found, had been killed in one of the sorties, and his wife had, with
the quick foresight of her countrywomen, secured the safety of the
house by letting a certain portion of it in apartments to the officers
of the National Guard as soon as the Commune was declared.

These gentlemen (one arrogant captain, I was informed, sold cat's meat
in times of peace) had lived with a fine military freedom, and left
marks of their boots on all the satin chairs. They had made a practice
of throwing cigar ends and matches on the carpets, had stabbed a few
pictures and bespattered the walls with wine, but a keen regard for
their own comfort had prevented further wanton damage, and all could
be repaired within a few days.

The woman made me some coffee, and while I was drinking it brought me
a telegram.

"Sander wires that he has run Mist