“Let us go and see how he is,” said the mayor to his two companions. They stopped at the door of the only room of the cottage. It was a large room with a floor of beaten clay; while overhead the blackened beams were full of working tools and parcels of seeds. Two beds with twisted columns and yellow curtains filled one side: on that on the left hand lay a little girl, four years old, fast asleep, and rolled up in a blanket, watched over by her sister, who was two or three years older. On the other bed, Count Claudieuse was lying, or rather sitting; for they had supported his back by all the pillows that had been saved from the fire. His chest was bare, and covered with blood; and a man, Dr. Seignebos, with his coat off, and his sleeves rolled up above the elbows, was bending over him, and holding a sponge in one hand and a probe in the other, seemed to be engaged in a delicate and dangerous operation. The countess, in a light muslin dress, was standing at the foot of her husband’s bed, pale but admirably composed and resigned. She was holding a lamp, and moved it to and fro as the doctor directed. In a corner two servant-women were sitting on a box, and crying, their aprons turned over their heads. At last the mayor of Sauveterre overcame his painful impressions, and entered the room. Count Claudieuse was the first to perceive him, and said,-- “Ah, here is our good M. Seneschal. Come nearer, my friend; come nearer. You see the year 1871 is a fatal year. It will soon leave me nothing but a few handfuls of ashes of all I possessed.” “It is a great misfortune,” replied the excellent mayor; “but, after all, it is less than we apprehended. God be thanked, you are safe!” “Who knows? I am suffering terribly.” The countess trembled. “Trivulce!” she whispered in a tone of entreaty. “Trivulce!” Never did lover glance at his beloved with more tenderness than Count Claudieuse did at his wife. “Pardon me, my dear Genevieve, pardon me, if I show any want of courage.” A sudden nervous spasm seized him; and then he exclaimed in a loud voice, which sounded like a trumpet,-- “Sir! But sir! Thunder and lightning! You kill me!” “I have some chloroform here,” replied the physician coldly. “I do not want any.” “Then you must make up your mind to suffer, and keep quiet now; for every motion adds to your pain.” Then sponging a jet of blood which spurted out from under his knife, he added,-- “However, you shall have a few minutes rest now. My eyes and my hand are exhausted. I see I am no longer young.”