“I darted toward her, slapped her hands, blew on her eyelids, while I read this simple epitaph: 'Here lies Louis-Theodore Carrel, Captain of Marine Infantry, killed by the enemy at Tonquin. Pray for him.'
“He had died some months before. I was affected to tears and redoubled my attentions. They were successful. She regained consciousness. I appeared very much moved. I am not bad looking, I am not forty. I saw by her first glance that she would be polite and grateful. She was, and amid more tears she told me her history in detached fragments as well as her gasping breath would allow, how the officer was killed at Tonquin when they had been married a year, how she had married him for love, and being an orphan, she had only the usual dowry.
“I consoled her, I comforted her, raised her and lifted her on her feet. Then I said:
“'Do not stay here. Come.'
“'I am unable to walk,' she murmured.
“'I will support you.'
“'Thank you, sir; you are good. Did you also come to mourn for some one?'
“'Yes, madame.'
“'A dead friend?'
“'Yes, madame.'