his eyes and dropped off into a doze, and then he had a confused vision of being at Remilly, married again and owner of a bit of land, sufficient to support a family of honest folks whose wants were not extravagant.  But it was all a dream, lighter than thistle-down; he knew it could never, never be.  He believed his heart to be capable of no emotion stronger than friendship, he loved Henriette as he did solely because he was Maurice’s brother.  And then that vague dream of marriage had come to be in some measure a comfort to him, one of those fancies of the imagination that we know is never to be realized and with which we fondle ourselves in our hours of melancholy.

For her part, such thoughts had never for a moment presented themselves to Henriette’s mind.  Since the day of the horrible tragedy at Bazeilles her bruised heart had lain numb and lifeless in her bosom, and if consolation in the shape of a new affection had found its way thither, it could not be otherwise than without her knowledge; the latent movement of the seed deep-buried in the earth, which bursts its sheath and germinates, unseen of human eye.  She failed even to perceive the pleasure it afforded her to remain for hours at a time by Jean’s bedside, reading to him those newspapers that never brought them tidings save of evil.  Never had her pulses beat more rapidly at the touch of his hand, never had she dwelt in dreamy rapture on the vision of the future with a longing to be loved once more.  And yet it was in that chamber alone that she found comfort and oblivion.  When she was there, busying herself with noiseless diligence for her patient’s well-being, she was at peace; it seemed to her that soon her brother would return and all would be well, they would all lead a life of happiness together and never more be parted.  And it appeared to her so natural that things should end thus that she talked of their relations without the slightest feeling of embarrassment, without once thinking to question her heart more closely, unaware that she had already made the chaste surrender of it.

But as she was on the point of leaving for the hospital one afternoon she looked into the kitchen as she passed and saw there a Prussian captain and two other officers, and the icy terror that filled her at the sight, then, for the first time, opened her eyes to the deep affection she had conceived for Jean.  It was plain that the men had heard of the wounded man’s presence at the farm and were come to claim him; he was to be torn from them and led away captive to the dungeon of some dark fortress deep in Germany.  She listened tremblingly, her heart beating tumultuously.

The captain, a big, stout man, who spoke French with scarce a trace of foreign accent, was rating old Fouchard soundly.

“Things can’t go on in this way; you are not dealing squarely by us.  I came myself to give you warning, once for all, that if the thing happens again I shall take other steps to remedy it; and I promise you the consequences will not be agreeable.”