now who it is." Then to the corporal, who was
hesitating, rather diffidently, on the landing: "Come in, Monsieur Jean.
Maurice has been here nearly two hours, and we have been wondering what
detained you."

Then, in the pale sunlight that filled the room, he saw how like she was
to Maurice, with that wonderful resemblance that often makes twins so
like each other as to be indistinguishable. She was smaller and slighter
than he, however; more fragile in appearance, with a rather large mouth
and delicately molded features, surmounted by an opulence of the most
beautiful hair imaginable, of the golden yellow of ripened grain. The
feature where she least resembled him was her gray eyes, great calm,
brave orbs, instinct with the spirit of the grandfather, the hero of the
Grand Army. She used few words, was noiseless in her movements, and was
so gentle, so cheerful, so helpfully active that where she passed her
presence seemed to linger in the air, like a fragrant caress.

"Come this way, Monsieur Jean," she said. "Everything will soon be ready
for you."

He stammered something inarticulately, for his emotion was such that he
could find no word of thanks. In addition to that his eyes were closing
he beheld her through the irresistible drowsiness that was settling on
him as a sea-fog drifts in and settles on the land, in which she seemed
floating in a vague, unreal way, as if her feet no longer touched
the earth. Could it be that it was all a delightful apparition, that
friendly young woman who smiled on him with such sweet simplicity? He
fancied for a moment that she had touched his hand and that he had felt
the pressure of hers, cool and firm, loyal as the clasp of an old tried
friend.

That was the last moment in which Jean was distinctly conscious of what
was going on about him. They were in the dining room; bread and meat
were set out on the table, but for the life of him he could not have
raised a morsel to his lips. A man was there, seated on a chair.
Presently he knew it was Weiss, whom he had seen at Mulhausen, but he
had no idea what the man was saying with such a sober, sorrowful air,
with slow and emphatic gestures. Maurice was already sound asleep, with
the tranquillity of death resting on his face, on a bed that had been
improvised for him beside the stove, and Henriette was busying herself
about a sofa on which a mattress had been thrown; she brought in a
bolster, pillow and coverings; with nimble, dexterous