"God with us!"
The White Cuirassiers shook their glittering sabres; the melancholy trumpet's blast swept skyward; the standards flapped. Suddenly the stony street trembled with the outcrash of drums; the cuirassiers halted, the steel-mailed squadrons parted right and left; a carriage drove at a gallop through the opened ranks. Lorraine leaned from the window; the officer in the carriage looked up.
As the fallen Emperor's eyes met Lorraine's, she stretched out both little bare arms and cried: "Vive la France!"—and he was gone to his captivity, the White Cuirassiers galloping on every side.
The Sister of Mercy opened the door behind, calling her.
"He is dying," she said. "He is in here. Come quickly!"
Lorraine turned her head. Her eyes were sweet and serene, her whole pale face transfigured.
"He will live," she said. "I am here."
"It is the pest!" muttered the Sister.
Lorraine glided into the hall and unclosed the door of the silent room.
He opened his eyes.