Then an idea of another nature occurred to him.  Lieutenant Rochas was greatly embarrassed as to what disposition he should make of the flag.  They all were firmly resolved to save it—­to do anything rather than allow it to fall into the hands of the Prussians.  It had been suggested to cut it into pieces, of which each should carry one off under his shirt, or else to bury it at the foot of a tree, so noting the locality in memory that they might be able to come and disinter it at some future day; but the idea of mutilating the flag, or burying it like a corpse, affected them too painfully, and they were considering if they might not preserve it in some other manner.  When Maurice, therefore, proposed to entrust the standard to a reliable person who would conceal it and, in case of necessity, defend it, until such day as he should restore it to them intact, they all gave their assent.

“Come,” said the young man, addressing his sister, “we will go with you to the Hermitage and see if Dubreuil is there.  Besides, I do not wish to leave you without protection.”

It was no easy matter to extricate themselves from the press, but they succeeded finally and entered a path that led upward on their left.  They soon found themselves in a region intersected by a perfect labyrinth of lanes and narrow passages, a district where truck farms and gardens predominated, interspersed with an occasional villa and small holdings of extremely irregular outline, and these lanes and passages wound circuitously between blank walls, turning sharp corners at every few steps and bringing up abruptly in the cul-de-sac of some courtyard, affording admirable facilities for carrying on a guerilla warfare; there were spots where ten men might defend themselves for hours against a regiment.  Desultory firing was already beginning to be heard, for the suburb commanded Balan, and the Bavarians were already coming up on the other side of the valley.

When Maurice and Henriette, who were in the rear of the others, had turned once to the left, then to the right and then to the left again, following the course of two interminable walls, they suddenly came out before the Hermitage, the door of which stood wide open.  The grounds, at the top of which was a small park, were terraced off in three broad terraces, on one of which stood the residence, a roomy, rectangular structure, approached by an avenue of venerable elms.  Facing it, and separated from it by the deep, narrow valley, with its steeply sloping banks, were other similar country seats, backed by a wood.

Henriette’s anxiety was aroused at sight of the open door, “They are not at home,” she said; “they must have gone away.”

The truth was that Dubreuil had decided the day before to take his wife and children to Bouillon, where they would be in safety from the disaster he felt was impending.  And yet the house was not unoccupied; even at a distance and through the intervening trees the approaching party were conscious of movements going on within its walls.  As the young woman advanced into the avenue she recoiled before the dead body of a Prussian soldier.