"I'll take you into my confidence, sergeant," whispered father Bribri, taking a pinch himself, "this is my only luxury. I get it at the Civitte, nowhere else!"
"That's the very place my wife makes her purchases in."
"Oh, so, then, you are married, sergeant? The devil take it! Your poor wife must be feeling frightfully uneasy."
"Yes, she is an excellent woman. If my wound is not fatal, old man, you must come to my house and take a bowl of soup with us. Ho! Ho! We shall chat about St. Denis Street while nibbling a crust."
"You are very kind, sergeant. Neither is that to be refused. And seeing that I do not keep house, you and your wife must return the visit by coming and sharing a rabbit-stew with me on the outer boulevard."
"Agreed, old man!"
As the civilian and the Municipalist were exchanging these courtesies, Monsieur Lebrenn came out of the rear room, the door of which had been kept closed. The linendraper looked pale; there were tears in his eyes. He said to his wife, whom he found busy attending one of the wounded men:
"Will you come in a minute, my dear friend?"
Madam Lebrenn joined her husband, and the door of the rear room closed behind them. There a sad spectacle presented itself to the eyes of the merchant's wife.
Pradeline lay stretched out upon a sofa. The girl was in her death agony. George Duchene, with his arm in a sling, was on his knees beside her, urging her to take some of the wine and water in a cup that he held up to her lips.