And that was all; without even saying a word of farewell she descended from the foot-bridge, fleeing with her little valise; whilst he remained there motionless for a long time yet, his slim, stiff figure barely distinguishable in the darkness, as with a sensation of monstrous enjoyment he feasted his eyes upon that spectacle of Babylon in flames.
As Henriette was leaving the station she was lucky enough to come across a stout woman who had just arranged with a flyman to drive her into Paris; and Henriette pleaded so piteously and shed such touching tears that this person at last consented to take her with her. The flyman, a dark little fellow, whipped up his horse and drove them away without opening his lips during the whole journey. The stout woman, however, did not cease chattering, telling Henriette that on closing and leaving her shop in the Rue de Richelieu a couple of days previously she had unwisely left some shares and debentures there, in a secret hiding-place in a wall. And as a natural consequence, ever since the city had begun flaming a couple of hours previously, she had been possessed by the desire to go back again, and secure those valuable papers, even though she might have to march through the fire to do so. When they reached the city gate, where they found a party of sleepy National Guards, the vehicle was allowed to pass on without much difficulty, especially as the stout woman unblushingly declared that she had merely been to St. Denis to fetch her niece to assist her in nursing her husband, who had been wounded by the Versaillese. Once in the Paris streets, however, they encountered terrible obstacles; at each moment they came upon barricades barring the roadways and were obliged to take a circuitous course. At last, on reaching the Boulevard Poissonnière the driver would go no further, and the two women were forced to continue their journey on foot, along the Rue du Sentier and the Rue des Jeûneurs and through the district of the Bourse. Whilst they were drawing near to the fortifications, the fiery sky had illumined their road with as vivid a light as that of daytime. And therefore, in the quarter of the city which they had now reached they were astonished to find the streets dim and deserted, with nothing to disturb their stillness save the vague echo of a distant roar. Near the Bourse, however, they heard some reports of fire-arms, and had to glide along cautiously close beside the house-fronts. And when they reached the Rue de Richelieu and the stout woman found her shop standing, altogether undamaged, she was so delighted that she insisted upon showing Henriette her way along the Rue du Hasard and the Rue Sainte-Anne. In the latter street, which a battalion of Federals still occupied, some of the men would not at first allow them to pass, and it was four o'clock and already light, when Henriette, exhausted with emotion and fatigue, at last reached the old house in the Rue des Orties and found its door wide open.
Maurice, meantime, on the barricade of the Rue du Bac, had managed to raise himself to his knees between the two sandbags, and Jean, who feared that he had pinned him to the ground, was suddenly buoyed up again by hope. 'Are you still alive, my poor youngster?' said he. 'Shall I have that luck, dirty brute that I am? Wait a moment, let me look at you.'
Then, by the vivid light of the conflagrations, he cautiously examined the wound. The bayonet had transpierced the arm near the right shoulder, and the misfortune was that it had afterwards entered the body between two of the ribs, and had probably injured the lung. Still, the wounded man, whose arm hung down, inert, was apparently able to breathe without any great difficulty.
'Don't distress yourself like that, my poor old fellow,' said Maurice. 'I am quite content to die; I would rather have done with it all. You did quite enough for me whilst we were together. Had it not been for you I should long since have died like this by the roadside.'
On hearing him speak in this fashion, Jean was again seized with violent grief: 'Will you be quiet? You saved me twice from the clutches of the Prussians. It was my turn to risk my life for you, and here I've been and massacred you. Thunder! I must have been fuddled not to recognise you, fuddled like a hog with having drunk too much blood.'
Tears had started from his eyes at memory of their leave-taking over yonder at Remilly, that parting when they had asked each other whether they would ever meet again, and if so where and under what circumstances of grief or joy. Had they, then, spent so many hungry days and sleepless nights together, with death staring them in the face, all to no avail? Had their hearts mingled during those weeks of valorous life simply that all might end in this abomination, this monstrous, senseless fratricide? No, no, Jean's heart revolted at the thought.
'Let me see to it, youngster,' said he; 'I must save you.'