the household in a condition of the greatest distress and disorder, Gilberte wringing her hands, Madame Delaherche weeping great silent tears, while her son, who had come in from the factory, where work was gradually being resumed, uttered exclamations of surprise.  The colonel had just been discovered, stone dead, lying exactly as he had fallen, in a heap on the floor of his chamber.  The physician, who was summoned with all haste, could assign no cause for the sudden death; there was no indication of paralysis or heart trouble.  The colonel had been stricken down, and no one could tell from what quarter the blow came; but the following morning, when the room was thrown open, a piece of an old newspaper was found, lying on the carpet, that had been wrapped around a book and contained the account of the surrender of Metz.

“My, dear,” said Gilberte to Henriette, “as Captain de Gartlauben was coming downstairs just now he removed his hat as he passed the door of the room where my uncle’s body is lying.  Edmond saw it; he’s an extremely well-bred man, don’t you think so?”

In all their intimacy Jean had never yet kissed Henriette.  Before resuming his seat in the gig with the doctor he endeavored to thank her for all her devoted kindness, for having nursed and loved him as a brother, but somehow the words would not come at his command; he opened his arms and, with a great sob, clasped her in a long embrace, and she, beside herself with the grief of parting, returned his kiss.  Then the horse started, he turned about in his seat, there was a waving of hands, while again and again two sorrowful voices repeated in choking accents: 

“Farewell!  Farewell!”

On her return to Remilly that evening Henriette reported for duty at the hospital.  During the silent watches of the night she was visited by another convulsive attack of sobbing, and wept, wept as if her tears would never cease to flow, clasping her hands before her as if between them to strangle her bitter sorrow.

VII.

On the day succeeding the battle of Sedan the mighty hosts of the two German armies, without the delay of a moment, commenced their march on Paris, the army of the Meuse coming in by the north through the valley of the Marne, while the third army, passing the Seine at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, turned the city to the south and moved on Versailles; and when, on that bright, warm September morning, General Ducrot, to whom had been assigned the command of the as yet incomplete 14th corps, determined to attack the latter force while it was marching by the flank, Maurice’s new regiment, the 115th, encamped in the woods to the left of Meudon, did not receive its orders to advance until the day was lost.  A few shells from the enemy sufficed to do the work; the panic started with a regiment of zouaves made up of raw recruits, and quickly spreading to the other troops, all were swept away in a headlong rout that never ceased until they were safe behind the walls of Paris, where the utmost consternation prevailed.  Every position in advance of the southern line of fortifications was lost, and that evening the wires of the Western Railway telegraph, the city’s sole remaining means of communicating with the rest of France, were cut.  Paris was cut off from the world.