“I met the man who buries the dead to-day,” said Francis, our valet de chambre, “as he was coming back from the churchyard with his empty carriage. ‘One or two more taken there?’ I asked. ‘Oh yes; six or seven—about half-a-dozen every day, sometimes even more; and it does happen sometimes that one or other gives a grunt or so inside the hearse there; but that makes no matter, in he goes into the trench, the d——d Prussian.”
Next day the monster died himself, and another man had to take up his office—at that time the most laborious in the place. The post brought nothing but sorrow—news from all quarters of the ravages of the pest; and love letters—letters to remain for ever unanswered—from Prince Henry, who knew nothing of what was going on. To Conrad I had sent a single line to prepare him for the awful event—“Lilly very ill”. He could not come immediately, the service detained him. It was not till the fourth day that the poor fellow rushed into the house.
“Lilly!” he cried. “Is it true?” He had heard of the misfortune as he was on the way.
We said yes.
He remained unnaturally still and tearless.
“I have loved her many years,” was all he said, low to him self. Then aloud: “Where is she lying? In the churchyard? Good-bye. She is waiting for me.”
“Shall I come with you?” some one offered.
“No, I prefer going alone.”
He went, and we saw him no more. On the grave of his sweetheart he put a bullet through his brains.
So ended Conrad Count Althaus, captain-lieutenant in the Fourth Regiment of Hussars, in his twenty-seventh year.