She held out wild appealing arms. "Mon fils! Mon fils!" she gasped, and dropped senseless to the ground. "Can nothing be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Baron, in distress. "The poor creature! George, will they not let him off? Surely they need not be so cruel as to take him away!" "I am afraid the only chance would be a substitute--and not much hope of that." "Do ask. Find out something. Do, please." Denham crossed the road with his rapid stride, followed closely by his shadow, Roy, while the Colonel came after in more leisurely style. The poor woman's friends were attending to her, and Ivor, always the Colonel's spokesman in a foreign language, made inquiries of a respectable man, perhaps a small shopkeeper, standing by. The man shrugged his shoulders as he replied. It had to be, he said, not unkindly but resignedly. All young men equally were subject to the conscription, and he who "fell" had to go. There was no escape, no remedy. None, except through the purchase of a substitute, and Marie Paulet, he feared, could not manage that. She was a good woman, truly estimable, and he was sorry for her, yes, sincerely sorry; but what was to be done? The First Consul required soldiers, and, in fact, he would have them! Another expressive shrug. How much would be required for a substitute? _Eh bien_--one hundred livres would doubtless suffice. Mme. Paulet, foreseeing this day, had toiled hard and saved assiduously during many years; but with her utmost exertions, as he knew, for she had told him, she had managed to get together only fifty-five livres. No substitute could be obtained for only fifty-five livres. No, no, impossible! Jean would have to go, and his mother would grow used to it, like other mothers. How soon? _Sans doute_ he would be marched away at once--immediately--to the nearest depôt, there to be exercised. The thing had to be. There was no remedy. All France was giving up her best men, by tens of thousands, to feed the Army. In parts already none but women and old men remained to till the soil. Was Mme. Paulet a widow? asked Denham. "Oui, oui, oui, oui," the man said, fast as the words could come. Certainly she was a widow; but then she was not over sixty, nor was Jean her only son. Had she been over sixty, and depending for her subsistence upon an only son, then _vraiment_ her case would have been easily pleaded. Marie Paulet was under fifty in age, though she looked more, since she had toiled hard and had known much sorrow. She had a second son too, young and somewhat lame, but able to work, though in truth more of a burden than an assistance. Jean, however, would have to go. This was a supplementary conscription for the year, more men being urgently required by the First Consul. Jean Paulet stood with a face of sullen despair beside his mother, saying not a word. He was scarcely over nineteen, only one fortnight past the day, Ivor's informant remarked; and he looked young, being loose-limbed and shambling, though broad-shouldered.