‘In Paris, during the terrible days of the Commune.’
‘Ah!’ was the only answer, with a little air of relief.
‘It was my fate, madame, to be shot down in one of the many street fights that took place from house to house. I was carried to the hospital. The doctors said I should be a dead man in less than a week, but I am alive and here to-day. No thanks to the doctors for that, but to you, madame—to you!’
‘To me!’
‘You were there, madame, at the hospital to which I was taken, nursing day and night, like an angel from heaven, among the sick and wounded. You nursed me, madame, ah! so carefully, so tenderly! But for you I should have died.’
‘I am very glad to see you again; but I am afraid you make far too much of any little service I was able to render you.’
‘No, no, madame! Pardon. It was to you I owed my life, not to the doctors. I was but a poor soldier then, I am but a poor garçon now; I have nothing, nothing in the world to offer you but my thanks.’
‘I am amply repaid by them.’
‘Ah, if Jules Decroze could but show his gratitude in some other way!’
‘No other way is necessary or possible. Be satisfied to know that your thanks will dwell pleasantly in my memory for a long time to come.’