He did not for a second cease to think of the duty incumbent on him as an officer and a combatant, nor for a second of what he had to say to M. d'Andeville. But these two mingled obsessions deprived him of all lucidity of mind! and he did not know how to come to an explanation with his father-in-law or how to unravel the tangled position. M. d'Andeville asked his question several times. He did not reply. The lieutenant's voice was raised: "Attention! . . . Present! . . . Fire! . . ." The command was repeated four times over. The nearest enemy column, decimated by the bullets, seemed to waver. But the others came up with it; and it formed up again. Two German shells burst against the house. The roof was carried away bodily, several feet of the frontage were demolished and three men killed. After the storm, a calm. But Paul had so clear a sense of the danger which threatened them all that he was unable to contain himself any longer. Suddenly making up his mind, addressing M. d'Andeville without further preamble, he said: "One word in particular. . . . I must know. . . . Are you quite sure that the Comtesse d'Andeville is dead?" And without waiting for the reply, he went on: "Yes, you think my question mad. It seems so to you because you do not know. But I am not mad; and I ask you to answer my question as you would do if I had the time to state the reasons that justify me in asking it. Is the Comtesse Hermine dead?" M. d'Andeville, restraining his feelings and consenting to adopt the hypothesis which Paul seemed to insist on, said: "Is there any reason that allows you to presume that my wife is still alive?" "There are very serious reasons, I might say, incontestable reasons." M. d'Andeville shrugged his shoulders and said, in a firm voice: "My wife died in my arms. My lips touched her icy hands, felt that chill of death which is so horrible in those we love. I myself dressed her, as she had asked, in her wedding gown; and I was there when they nailed down the coffin. Anything else?" Paul listened to him and thought to himself: "Has he spoken the truth? Yes, he has; and still how can I admit . . . ?" Speaking more imperiously, M. d'Andeville repeated: "Anything else?" "Yes," said Paul, "one more question. There was a portrait in the Comtesse d'Andeville's boudoir: was that her portrait?" "Certainly, her full length portrait." "Showing her with a black lace scarf over her shoulders?" "Yes, the kind of scarf she liked wearing." "And the scarf was fastened in front by a cameo set in a gold snake?" "Yes, it was an old cameo which belonged to my mother and which my wife always wore." Paul yielded to thoughtless impulse. M. d'Andeville's assertions seemed to him so many admissions; and, trembling with rage, he rapped out: