“Yes, yes, Father Fouchard; it is I.” And she quickly asked: “And Charlot?” “He is abed and asleep.” “That is well! Thanks.” There was no longer cause for her to hasten; she gave utterance to a deep-drawn sigh, as if to rid herself of her burden of fatigue and distress. “Go in by the window,” said Fouchard. “There is company in there.” She was greatly agitated when, leaping lightly into the room, she beheld the three men. In the uncertain candle-light she gave the impression of being very dark, with thick black hair and a pair of large, fine, lustrous eyes, the chief adornment of a small oval face, strong by reason of its tranquil resignation. The sudden meeting with Honoré had sent all the blood rushing from her heart to her cheeks; and yet she was hardly surprised to find him there; he had been in her thoughts all the way home from Raucourt. He, trembling with agitation, his heart in his throat, spoke with affected calmness: “Good-evening, Silvine.” “Good-evening, Honoré.” Then, to keep from breaking down and bursting into tears, she turned away, and recognizing Maurice, gave him a smile. Jean’s presence was embarrassing to her. She felt as if she were choking somehow, and removed the _foulard_ that she wore about her neck. Honoré continued, dropping the friendly _thou_ of other days: “We were anxious about you, Silvine, on account of the Prussians being so near at hand.” All at once her face became very pale and showed great distress; raising her hand to her eyes as if to shut out some atrocious vision, and directing an involuntary glance toward the room where Charlot was slumbering, she murmured: “The Prussians—Oh! yes, yes, I saw them.”