What had become of our hundred infantry men? Probably they had rushed out into the open country, and had been either killed or taken.
And as for our cavalry men, who knew the district round about the town, they had escaped, it would seem, by way of the mountain of Sery, in the valley of Gillocourt.
We saw no more of their pursuers; no doubt they left the town by some other route than the one by which they had entered, and had gone to rejoin their comrades, who were drawn up in the plain of Tillet to the number of about two or three thousand.
We were emboldened by the solitude and silence; moreover, our host, the military surgeon, came forward to attend to the wounded men.
I hung to his coat-tails, in spite of my mother's entreaties, and we opened the street door. A Prussian sergeant, who was leaning against this door, fell backwards when his means of support suddenly failed him.
He was wounded through the right breast by a sword thrust. Directly the women saw they could be useful to a poor wounded man their fears vanished. They rushed to the rescue, raised the young man (who would be somewhere between twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age) and carried him into the sitting-room, which they speedily turned into a hospital.
Millet continued his rounds, and, with the assistance of the neighbours, who began to appear at their doors, he brought back four or five of the wounded, one of whom was a Frenchman. The remainder were either dead or at their last gasp.
And now the bandaging began.
Here the women played the divine part heaven intended should fall to their portion. My mother, Madame Millet and her two daughters turned into true Sisters of Mercy, comforting and tending at the same time.
I held the basin full of water, while Millet washed the wounds and the servants prepared lint.