Anxiety for the health of his patient, the remedies he needed, and other little attentions, caused a happy diversion to the ever-present anxiety of Antoine’s father. As he saw this handsome young officer, who had fought so heroically, and who under such solicitous care, was about to recover his health under his roof, Graff began to hope once more. He said to himself, “If my own son is wounded, why should not he also be so fortunate as Captain de Trémont? He has been brought a long distance, with his wounded thigh, but he will be quite well again in less than a couple of months. They do not all die who are wounded in war. I feel sure Antoine will come back now.” And his spirits returned with renewed hope. The captain, well cared for by Graff and his wife, was soon able to leave his bed, and after dinner, at night, he would relate to them his campaigns in Algeria and Mexico. He explained to his hosts the reasons why France was coming off the worst in this disastrous campaign, attributing all the advantages of the Germans to their remarkable organizing capacity, and the perfection of their artillery. “You see, the whole future of war consists in war material. We have to give way before breech-loading cannons, which have, from the very first, given proof of a marked superiority over our grooved arms. The moral effect on our troops has been decisive. The first thing to be done after the war, will be to investigate a new kind of cannon and explosives of a terribly destructive power. The question of explosives will be of capital importance. This ought to be the main end of our efforts in the artillery.” With remarkable clearness he explained all that modern chemistry offered in cunning combinations, such as would guarantee victory to that adversary which could most scientifically assure massacre and death. So, in the evening silence in that large town, besieged by the conquering enemy, the conquered were already engaged in thinking of preparations for revenge. The siege came to an end, and all the brave soldiers who would have defended Metz to the death were surrendered alive to the enemy. The flags, a prey to famine, were carried off to form trophies of victory in Germany. Paris fell in her turn, then the final armies of France, driven back across the snow, stained with blood, not so tired of death as exhausted with the fight, stopped at the country’s call. And on that immense battlefield, two hundred leagues square, the victors’ shout of triumph mingled with the despairing cry of the vanquished. By degrees news arrived, bringing sorrow to some and joy to others. Among the brave young fellows who had gone forth to fight, so ardent and proud, many never returned, whilst the numbers of prisoners and wounded will never be known.