Marie became almost frenzied with
terror. She would have rushed out to seek him, but that she knew not
where to turn, and if he came, wanting help, and she was not there to
give it, matters might go hardly with him. The din of battle drew
nearer, shells were falling, bullets were whizzing, it seemed hardly
possible that any one could escape, and yet, men went by shouting and
singing, mad with either drink or excitement. Plon, after entreating
Madame Didier to come farther into shelter, shut himself into his little
room with a white face, and was seen no more. Everything seemed to grow
more horrid as the night drew on.

At about ten o'clock, Plon, hearing voices in the passage, peeped out.
There still stood Madame Didier, wan as a ghost, but with the restless
excitement gone. A man was speaking to her, an elderly, grimy,
frightened-looking man, with a bald head. He was telling a story in a
dull, hopeless kind of way, as if at such a time no one story was
particularly distinguished from another, and pity had to wait for
quieter seasons.

"He was shot in the next street; Jean says he never wished to go with
them, but they forced him along. After that he got into a doorway, where
he might have hidden himself, but Fort saw him, and denounced him. Fort
might have left him alone, as it was he your husband was trying to
persuade, but at such a time men look after their own skins. They
dragged him out and set him up with some others against a wall, and
that was the end of him, and of a good many others."

His listener flung up her hands with a gesture of wild despair, and
turned her face to the wall, speechless. The man, who was by trade a
_trieur_ or chief _chiffonnier_, seeing Plon's head appear,
turned round and addressed himself to him.

"Fort is a traitor, he has denounced others. They will be here presently
searching for arms. It is short work I can tell you."

"And my--my _locataire_ is shot!" murmured Plon, panic-struck. But the
man whose mission was ended, turned round without another word and went
out into the lurid darkness.

The landlord made a trembling effort to stagger across the passage, and
to pluck at Marie's gown. When he spoke, his voice quavered with fright.

"Come, come, Madame Didier, go upstairs, and--and--cry there like a good
woman. Here it isn't safe. Besides, if they know who you are, I might be
compromised. Poor Jean! Heavens!--"

For a volley of rifle shot poured down the street, a rush of