Two years went by, and Honoré and Silvine still loved each other, and longed to marry; but at last there was a terrible scene between the father and the son, and the latter, unable to remain any longer in the house, enlisted, and was sent to Algeria, whilst the old man obstinately kept his servant girl, with whom he was well satisfied. Then came to pass that frightful thing that wrecked poor Silvine's life. She had sworn to wait for Honoré, but a fortnight after his departure she became the prey of Goliath Steinberg--the Prussian, as he was called--a tall, genial-looking chap, with short, fair hair, and a pink, smiling face, who had been in Fouchard's employ as farm-hand for some months already, and had become Honoré's comrade and confidant. Had old Fouchard stealthily brought this to pass? Had there been seduction or violence? Silvine herself no longer knew; she was overwhelmed. Becoming _enceinte_, however, she accepted the necessity of marrying Goliath, and he, with a smiling face, agreed to it; but he repeatedly postponed the date of the ceremony, until at last, on the very eve of Silvine's accouchement, he suddenly disappeared. It was reported later on that he had found a situation at another farm in the direction of Beaumont. Since then three years had elapsed, and nobody at Remilly imagined that this worthy fellow, Goliath, so attentive to the girls, was simply one of the spies with whom Germany had peopled the Eastern provinces of France. When Honoré in Algeria heard of what had happened, it was as if the fierce tropical sun had stretched him prostrate by dealing him a burning blow on the nape of the neck. He remained for three months in the hospital, but would never apply for a furlough to go home, through fear lest he should again meet Silvine and see her child. The artilleryman's hands trembled whilst Maurice was reading the letter. It was a letter from Silvine, the first and only one she had ever written to him. What feeling had prompted her to write it--she, so submissive and silent, but whose beautiful black eyes acquired at times an expression of wondrous resolution, despite her perpetual servitude? She simply said that she knew he had gone to the war, and that as she might never see him again she felt too much sorrow at the thought that he might die fancying she no longer loved him; but she did love him, and had never loved anyone but him; and she repeated this, over and over again, throughout four long pages, constantly making use of the same words, but not seeking to excuse herself or even to explain what had happened. And not a word did she say of the child; her letter was but a farewell, full of infinite tenderness. Maurice, in whom his cousin had formerly confided, felt deeply touched on reading what Silvine had written. On raising his eyes, he saw that Honoré was in tears, and he embraced him like a brother. 'My poor Honoré,' he said.