Delaherche gave a little involuntary start of delight; they were to have a respite at last, then!  Then he thought it might be unpatriotic to be joyful at such a time, and put on a long face again; but none the less his heart was very glad and he contemplated with much interest a colonel and captain, followed by the sergeant, as they hurriedly left the Sous-Prefecture.  The colonel had the tablecloth, rolled in a bundle, beneath his arm.  He thought he should like to follow them, and took leave of Rose, who was very proud that her napery was to be put to such use.  It was then just striking two o’clock.

In front of the Hotel de Ville Delaherche was jostled by a disorderly mob of half-crazed soldiers who were pushing their way down from the Faubourg de la Cassine; he lost sight of the colonel, and abandoned his design of going to witness the raising of the white flag.  He certainly would not be allowed to enter the citadel, and then again he had heard it reported that shells were falling on the college, and a new terror filled his mind; his factory might have been burned since he left it.  All his feverish agitation returned to him and he started off on a run; the rapid motion was a relief to him.  But the streets were blocked by groups of men, at every crossing he was delayed by some new obstacle.  It was only when he reached the Rue Maqua and beheld the monumental facade of his house intact, no smoke or sign of fire about it, that his anxiety was allayed, and he heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction.  He entered, and from the doorway shouted to his mother and wife: 

“It is all right! they are hoisting the white flag; the cannonade won’t last much longer.”

He said nothing more, for the appearance presented by the ambulance was truly horrifying.

In the vast drying-room, the wide door of which was standing open, not only was every bed occupied, but there was no more room upon the litter that had been shaken down on the floor at the end of the apartment.  They were commencing to strew straw in the spaces between the beds, the wounded were crowded together so closely that they were in contact.  Already there were more than two hundred patients there, and more were arriving constantly; through the lofty windows the pitiless white daylight streamed in upon that aggregation of suffering humanity.  Now and then an unguarded movement elicited an involuntary cry of anguish.  The death-rattle rose on the warm, damp air.  Down the room a low, mournful wail, almost a lullaby, went on and ceased not.  And all about was silence, intense, profound, the stolid resignation of despair, the solemn stillness of the death-chamber, broken only by the tread and whispers of the attendants.  Rents in tattered, shell-torn uniforms disclosed gaping wounds, some of which had received a hasty dressing on the battlefield, while others were still raw and bleeding.  There were feet, still incased in their coarse shoes, crushed into a mass like jelly; from