g ... a kiss ... a puff of wind...."

He stood up for an instant, but his eyelids flickered, his hands sought
for support and he fell back upon the litter.

Mme. Morestal and Marthe hastened to his side:

"Let me, mamma, please," said Marthe, "I'm used to it.... But you've
forgotten the absorbent wool ... and the peroxide of hydrogen.... Quick,
mamma ... and more bandages, lots of bandages...."

Mme. Morestal went out. Marthe bent over the wounded man and felt his
pulse without delay:

"Quite right, it's nothing," she said. "The artery is uninjured."

She uncovered the wound and, very tenderly, staunched the blood that
trickled from it:

"The peroxide, quick, mamma."

She took the bottle which some one held out to her and, raising her
head, saw Suzanne stooping like herself over the wounded man.

"M. Morestal is waking up," said the girl. "Mme. Morestal sent me in her
stead...."

Marthe did not so much as start. She did not even feel as though an
unpleasant memory had flitted through her mind, compelling her to make
an effort to suppress her hatred:

"Unroll the bandages," she said.

And Suzanne also was calm in the face of her enemy. No sense of shame or
embarrassment troubled her. Their mingled breath caressed the soldier's
face.

Nor did it seem that any memory of love existed between Philippe and
Suzanne or that a carnal bond united them. They looked at each other
unmoved. Marthe herself told Philippe to uncork a bottle of boracic. He
did so. His hand touched Suzanne's. Neither he nor Suzanne felt a
thrill.

Around them continued the uninterrupted work of the men, each of whom
obeyed orders and executed them according to his own initiative, without
fuss or confusion. The servants were all in the drawing-room. The women
aided in the work. Amid the great anguish that oppressed every heart at
the first formidable breath of war, no one thought of anything but his
individual task, that contribution of heroism which fate was claiming
from one and all. What mattered the petty wounds of pride, the petty
griefs to which the subtleties of love give rise! What signified the
petty treacheries of daily life!

"He's better," said Marthe. "Here, Suzanne, let him sniff at the
smelling-salts."

Duvauchel opened his eyes. He saw Marthe and Suzanne, smiled and
murmured:

"By Jingo!... It was worth while!... Duvauchel's a lucky dog!..."

But an unexpected silence fell upon the great drawing-room, like a
spontan