'You know that I have a brother who is a soldier,' continued Henriette in a feverish voice. 'He has remained in Paris, and I am afraid he may have become mixed up in that horrible struggle, so I beg of you, Otto, enable me to continue my journey.'
He then made up his mind to answer: 'But I assure you that I can do nothing. The trains have not been running since yesterday. I think the rails have been taken up near the ramparts. And I have neither vehicle nor horse nor man to drive you——'
She looked at him, stammering plaintive words in her grief at finding him so callous, so determined not to assist her. 'Oh, God! so you won't do anything? Oh, God! whom shall I apply to?'
Yet these Prussians were still the all-powerful masters; with a word they could have turned the town topsy-turvy, have requisitioned a hundred vehicles, have caused a thousand horses to be brought from their stables! But nevertheless he refused assistance with that haughty air of the conqueror whose rule it was not to intervene in the affairs of the vanquished, deeming them unclean and of a nature to tarnish his lately won laurels.
'At all events,' resumed Henriette at last, striving to calm herself—'at all events you know what is happening, and can surely tell me.'
A slight, barely perceptible smile passed over his lips. 'Paris is burning. Come over here, it can be seen plainly.'
He walked before her, passed out of the station, and followed the rails for a hundred paces or so, until they reached a little iron foot-bridge crossing the line. And when they had climbed its narrow stairway and found themselves up above, leaning over the handrail, the whole vast level plain was spread out before them.
'You see, Paris is burning.'
It might have been about half-past nine. The red glow setting the sky on fire was still spreading. The little ruddy clouds in the east had now vanished, and in the zenith all was inky blackness save for occasional reflections of the distant flames. The whole line of the horizon was on fire; but here and there could be distinguished conflagrations of greater intensity than others, sheaves of bright purple flames spurting up continuously amid great whirling smoke-clouds and streaking the darkness with their fearful splendour. And it seemed, too, as though the conflagrations were marching on and on, as though some gigantic forest were catching fire from tree to tree, as though the earth itself would end by blazing, set alight by that huge pile of Paris.