Weiss's abode was nearly in the centre of Bazeilles, on the right-hand side, near the Place de l'Eglise. It stood back a little from the highway which it faced, and comprised a ground floor and upper floor, the latter being lighted by three windows and surmounted by a garret. In the rear there was a rather large garden, which sloped down towards the meadows, and whence the view extended over the immense panorama of hills from Remilly to Frénois. With the fervour of one who has but recently become a householder, Weiss had remained on his legs till nearly two o'clock in the morning, burying all his provisions in the cellar, and placing mattresses before all the windows, with the view of shielding his furniture as much as possible from the enemy's fire. He felt enraged at the idea that the Prussians might come and pillage this house, which he had so long coveted, which he had acquired with so much difficulty, and which he had had the enjoyment of during, as yet, so brief a space of time. All at once he heard some one calling to him from the road: 'I say, Weiss, do you hear?' He went down, and on opening the door found Delaherche, who had spent the night at his dyeworks, a large brick building, separated from the house merely by a party wall. All the workmen had already fled through the woods into Belgium, and the only person who remained to protect the place was the door-portress, a mason's widow, named Françoise Quitard. She, poor, trembling, scared creature, would have fled with the others had it not been for her boy, little Auguste, a lad some ten years of age, who was so ill with typhoid fever that he could not be removed. 'I say,' resumed Delaherche, 'do you hear? It's beginning nicely--it would be prudent for us to get back to Sedan at once.' Weiss had formally promised his wife that he would leave Bazeilles as soon as there was any serious danger, and he was quite resolved to keep his promise. So far, however, merely a long-range artillery engagement was being fought, in a more or less random fashion, through the morning mist. 'Wait a bit,' the book-keeper replied, 'there's no hurry.'