It was dark night when I reached the house. Marie-Rose was waiting for me, seated by the table; she observed me with an anxious eye, and she seemed to ask, "What has happened—what orders have we."
But I said nothing, and, throwing my cape, all streaming with rain, on the back of a chair, and shaking my cap, I cried:
"Go to bed, Marie-Rose, we will not be disturbed to-night; go and sleep tranquilly; the general at Bitche does not want us to stir. The battle is lost, but we will have another in Alsace, at Saverne, or farther off, and the roads are to remain open. We have no need to do anything, the roads will be well guarded."
I do not know what she thought about it, but at the end of a minute, seeing that I did not sit down, she said:
"I have kept your soup near the fire, and it is still hot if you would like something to eat, father."
"Bah! I am not hungry," I answered; "let us go to bed: it is late, and that is the best thing to do."
I could no longer restrain myself; anger was gaining upon me. I went out and bolted the door, and then taking the lamp I went up-stairs. Marie-Rose followed me, and we each went to our own room.
I heard my daughter go to bed, but I remained thinking for a long time, leaning my elbows on the table and watching the little yellow light before the black panes where the ivy leaves were shivering in the rain, winking my eyes and saying to myself:
"Frederick, there are, nevertheless, many asses in the world, and they do not walk in the rear; they march in front and lead the others."
At last, as the night advanced towards two o'clock, thinking that it was useless to burn oil for nothing, I undressed and went to bed, blowing out my lamp.