Maurice and Jean were posted behind one of the first elms. Each of those ancient trunks, of giant proportions, furnished ample shelter for a couple of men. Farther on, Bugler Gaude had joined Lieutenant Rochas, who obstinately kept the flag with him since there was no one to whom he could confide it. Whilst he was firing he stood it against the tree, beside him. Each trunk had its little garrison, the Zouaves, Chasseurs, and Marines concealing themselves behind the elms, from one to the other end of the avenue, and only peering forth at the moment when they fired.
The number of Prussians in the little wood across the dingle was no doubt steadily increasing, for the hostile fusillade became more and more lively. No one was to be seen—you barely espied a flitting profile, darting every now and then from one tree to another. Some of the enemy's skirmishers occupied a country house with green shutters standing on the verge of the wood, and were firing from the partially opened windows of the ground floor. It was now about four o'clock, the cannonade was slackening, dying away; but in this sequestered hollow, whence the white flag hoisted on the keep of Sedan could not be seen, these men, French and Germans, were yet killing one another as though they had some personal quarrel together. And in this direction indeed, in spite of the truce, many hole-and-corner encounters were stubbornly prolonged until black night fell. Both through the suburb of the Fond de Givonne, and across the gardens of the Petit-Pont, the fusillade rattled persistently.
Prussians and Frenchmen continued for a long while riddling one another with bullets across that narrow valley, beyond the Hermitage. From time to time, whenever a man was imprudent enough to show himself, he fell with a bullet in his chest. Three more corpses were already lying in the avenue, and a wounded man, stretched upon his face there, was giving vent to a frightful rattle, without anyone thinking of going to turn him over, so as to lessen his agony.
All at once, as Jean raised his eyes, he saw Henriette slipping a knapsack as a pillow under the unfortunate fellow's head, after laying him upon his back. She had stolen out of the house without being perceived. The corporal ran up to her and dragged her behind the tree which screened Maurice and himself. 'Do you want to get killed?' he asked her.
She did not seem conscious of her rash temerity: 'No—but I was frightened, all alone in that vestibule,' she answered: 'I would much rather stay out here.'
And thenceforth she remained with them. They set her down at their feet close against the trunk of the elm, whilst they continued firing their last cartridges in such mad desperation that both weariness and fear flew away. Indeed, complete unconsciousness was coming over them, their actions were growing quite mechanical, their heads had become so empty that they had lost even the instinct of self-preservation.
'Just look, Maurice!' Henriette suddenly exclaimed; 'isn't that a man of the Prussian Guard—that dead fellow lying in front of us?'
For a moment or so she had been scrutinising one of the enemy's dead, a thick-set man with big moustaches, who was lying on his side on the gravel of the terrace. His spiked helmet had rolled a few steps away, with its strap broken. And the uniform was indeed that of the Prussian Guard: dark grey trousers, blue tunic with white galloons and great-coat rolled up and worn in bandolier fashion.
'I assure you it is the Guards' uniform,' continued Henriette. 'I've an engraving at home. And, besides, there's the photograph which Cousin Gunther sent us.' She paused, and then in her tranquil way rose and stepped up to the corpse before she could be prevented. She stooped over the body and at once exclaimed: 'The shoulder-strap is red! Ah! I felt certain of it.' And then back she came, never heeding the bullets which whistled past her ears. 'Yes, the shoulder-strap's red—it was fated—Cousin Gunther's regiment.'