The features of the tenant of the attic as he contemplated the window in question, bore an expression of such profound melancholy that it was almost painful to behold. After a while a tear, that fell from the young man's eyes, rolled down upon his brown moustache.
The sound of a clock that struck half past six drew George Duchene—that was the young man's name—from his revery. He passed his hand over his moist eyes, and left the window murmuring bitterly:
"Bah! To-day, or to-morrow, a bullet through my breast will deliver me from this insane love. Thanks to God, there will soon be a serious engagement. My death will at least serve the cause of freedom."
George remained pensive for a while, and then added:
"But grandfather—I forgot him!"
He then proceeded to a corner of the room where stood a little stove half filled with burning coals, and which he had been using to found his bullets. He placed on the fire a small earthen dish filled with milk, crumbled into it some slices of white bread, and in a few minutes had ready for use a toothsome bowl of milk soup that the expertest housekeeper might have been jealous of.
After concealing the carbine and munitions of war under his mattress, George took up the bowl, opened a door that was cut in the board partition of his apartment, and passed into a contiguous room, where a man of advanced age and with a kind and venerable face framed in long white hair, lay on a much better bed than George's. The old man seemed exceedingly weak; his thin and wrinkled hands were agitated by a continuous tremor.
"Good morning, grandfather," said George, tenderly embracing the old man. "Did you rest well during the night?"
"Quite well, my boy."
"Here is your milk soup. I'm afraid I kept you waiting."