What made matters worse was, that the valley of the Givonne having fallen into the hands of the Germans through the premature retirement of the 1st corps, the 12th corps, which was even then sustaining a vigorous attack in front, was overlapped on its left flank.  Now that General de Wimpffen had relieved General Ducrot, it seemed that the original plan was to be carried out.  Orders had been received to retake Bazeilles at every cost, and drive the Bavarians into the Meuse.  And so, in the ranks of that regiment that had been halted there in full retreat at the entrance of the village and ordered to resume the offensive, there was much bitter feeling, and angry words were rife.  Was ever such stupidity heard of? to make them abandon a position, and immediately tell them to turn round and retake it from the enemy!  They were willing enough to risk their life in the cause, but no one cared to throw it away for nothing!

A body of mounted men dashed up the street and General de Wimpffen appeared among them, and raising himself erect on his stirrups, with flashing eyes, he shouted, in ringing tones: 

“Friends, we cannot retreat; it would be ruin to us all.  And if we do have to retreat, it shall be on Carignan, and not on Mezieres.  But we shall be victorious!  You beat the enemy this morning; you will beat them again!”

He galloped off on a road that conducted to la Moncelle.  It was said that there had been a violent altercation between him and General Ducrot, each upholding his own plan, and decrying the plan of the other—­one asserting that retreat by way of Mezieres had been impracticable all that morning; the other predicting that, unless they fell back on Illy, the army would be surrounded before night.  And there was a great deal of bitter recrimination, each taxing the other with ignorance of the country and of the situation of the troops.  The pity of it was that both were right.

But Henriette, meantime, had made an encounter that caused her to forget her project for a moment.  In some poor outcasts; stranded by the wayside, she had recognized a family of honest weavers from Bazeilles, father, mother, and three little girls, of whom the largest was only nine years old.  They were utterly disheartened and forlorn, and so weary and footsore that they could go no further, and had thrown themselves down at the foot of a wall.

“Alas! dear lady,” the wife and mother said to Henriette, “we have lost our all.  Our house—­you know where our house stood on the Place de l’Eglise—­well, a shell came and burned it.  Why we and the children did not stay and share its fate I do not know—­”

At these words the three little ones began to cry and sob afresh, while the mother, in distracted language, gave further details of the catastrophe.

“The loom, I saw it burn like seasoned kindling wood, and the bed, the chairs and tables, they blazed like so much straw.  And even the clock—­yes, the poor old clock that I tried to save and could not.”