“There has been an accident, Madame—those cursed Prussians, they have destroyed your house. I would not go if I were you. There is Monsieur the Curé, he will tell you.”
One of the ministers of the Lutheran Church of St. Thomas came up at the moment, and recognised her.
“My poor child!” he exclaimed; “they have told you.”
“I know nothing,” she cried wildly; “take me to Hélène! Let me go to her!”
He put his hand upon her shoulder, and tried to hold her back.
“You must not go,” he said; “if you will wait a moment—”
A vague consciousness of the whole truth suddenly came to her.
“Oh, my God, Hélène is dead!” she cried.
He did not answer her. She read assent in his averted face. The sound of voices magnified in her ears. She saw the troubled faces, the shattered rooms, the looming crimson cloud above. They merged into a misty whirling scene, and so to darkness.
“La pauvre,” said one of those who looked on; “she is alone in the city now.”