Gilberte also displayed much enthusiasm for her new occupation as nurse; she barely took the time to throw a lace scarf over her head, and the three women went downstairs. When they reached the bottom and stood in the spacious vestibule, looking out through the main entrance, of which the leaves had been thrown wide back, they beheld a crowd collected in the street before the house. A low-hung carriage was advancing slowly along the roadway, a sort of carriole, drawn by a single horse, which a lieutenant of zouaves was leading by the bridle. They took it to be a wounded man that they were bringing to them, the first of their patients. “Yes, yes! This is the place; this way!” But they were quickly undeceived. The sufferer recumbent in the carriole was Marshal MacMahon, severely wounded in the hip, who, his hurt having been provisionally cared for in the cottage of a gardener, was now being taken to the Sous-Prefecture. He was bareheaded and partially divested of his clothing, and the gold embroidery on his uniform was tarnished with dust and blood. He spoke no word, but had raised his head from the pillow where it lay and was looking about him with a sorrowful expression, and perceiving the three women where they stood, wide eyed with horror, their joined hands resting on their bosom, in presence of that great calamity, the whole army stricken in the person of its chief at the very beginning of the conflict, he slightly bowed his head, with a faint, paternal smile. A few of those about him removed their hats; others, who had no time for such idle ceremony, were circulating the report of General Ducrot’s appointment to the command of the army. It was half-past seven o’clock. “And what of the Emperor?” Henriette inquired of a bookseller, who was standing at his door. “He left the city near an hour ago,” replied the neighbor. “I was standing by and saw him pass out at the Balan gate. There is a rumor that his head was taken off by a cannon ball.” But this made the grocer across the street furious. “Hold your tongue,” he shouted, “it is an infernal lie! None but the brave will leave their bones there to-day!” When near the Place du Collège the marshal’s carriole was lost to sight in the gathering crowd, among whose numbers the most strange and contradictory reports from the field of battle were now beginning to circulate. The fog was clearing; the streets were bright with sunshine. A hail, in no gentle terms, was heard proceeding from the courtyard: “Now then, ladies, here is where you are wanted, not outside!”