Against a house on the opposite side of the street was piled wood enough to start a fire when the Communards were ready, for, if they could no longer defend a point, they set fire to the surrounding buildings. Meanwhile, the real French soldiers rigidly carried out their plan to surround and overwhelm the Communards without destroying the city, and ever the cordon tightened. On this May morning it drew closer around the barricaded spot, and there was fighting in the near-by street. But seeing the danger of fire, the French commander in that quarter played a waiting game.
In the afternoon the day grew dark, and in the evening came a small, fine rain with the darkness. An adventurous young officer tried to carry the barricade under the cover of night, but Colonel Egmont, as the Marquis now called himself, had enough of the devil’s wit left in him to drive off the attacking party.
Diane, peering through the chinks of a closed jalousie, saw in the darkness the red-legged soldiers retiring, carrying off with them a couple of dead men and some wounded ones. In the dense shadows, however, two French soldiers remained who were not missed. One was a small man lying flat on his face with a bullet wound through his leg and another in his shoulder. The other was a big man with blood dripping from the back of his neck, who scrambled to his feet and knelt over the little man whose head rested against the tall iron door that led into Diane’s garden. In a minute or two the door was softly opened and Diane whispered:
“Come in quickly before you are seen. There is a cellar to the house where you can be safe for a little while, at least.”
The big man picked the small man up in his arms and slipped within the garden, Diane softly locking and barring the iron door behind him, and, running around to the back of the house, lifted the lid of a cellar door, showing some narrow stone steps that led down into the black cave of the cellars. As she did this, she recognized Jean in the big man, and François in the small man he was carrying, and Jean recognized her.
François’ soul was not in this world at that moment, although it was shortly to return to his body.
Jean and Diane wasted no time in polite inquiries after each other’s health.
“Can you carry his legs?” asked Jean in a whisper.
“Yes,” replied Diane, slipping down the stairs and taking hold of François’ legs, for she could step backward, knowing the stairs well.
The next minute they found themselves in the cellars. There were two small rooms. The windows were tightly closed so that no gleam of light should betray that the place was inhabited. A handful of charcoal burned in a little brazier, for the spring night was sharp and the cellar was cold, and one solitary candle in the outer room merely revealed the gulf of darkness. Huddled over the brazier was the figure of old Marie, the cook; in all cataclysms of one’s life, some one is found who is faithful.