Why should Jean be killed and not another? With fierce anger she revolted against her lot, crying out and struggling in her bed like a mad woman. "It is not true! it is not true! you all have a grudge against me! you are jealous of me because of Jean! ... Jean, my Jean, I shall yet embrace you, or there is no God!"--until suddenly, vociferating and shrieking, she again lost consciousness. II Her doctor was there, in a major's uniform. They had found him as by a miracle: he happened to be at home, at the telephone, the very moment when Amelia called him. As he could not remain he gave his instructions to Simone de Prans, to Germaine Le Gault, to Rose Misson, the last two, notified by Simone, having dressed in all haste and rushed to her. The door-bell was constantly ringing. The news of Odette's affliction was spreading through Paris. True, the war had already caused many bereavements, but among this intimate group, Lieutenant Jacquelin was the first to fall. Odette, recovering her senses, found herself in the position of an exceptional victim among her friends, both women and men. But the women, while encompassing her with compassion, had in their eyes, their voices, something other than bereavement usually inspires. When they tried to utter consoling words, all, without exception, spoke of "pride," of the "honor" which was reflected upon Odette. Odette accepted the words as a part of the phraseology of condolence; but she considered only one thing--Jean no longer existed. Her Jean, her lover, her happiness, her preoccupation, her days, her nights, her revery of yesterday, her hope for to-morrow; Jean, caresses, kisses, tenderness, sweetness, perfume, foolishness and wisdom, the beloved master and yet the child, to be cradled in her arms; Jean--a thousand times more than her own life--was no longer numbered among men! She could see him again, from head to foot, in the minutest physical details, and in the same moment she was certain that he was no longer anything other than a phantom; that never again her arms of flesh would press to her his flesh, that her lips would never again kiss his lips. Tears did not come in the torrents that bring solace to the sharpest griefs. The period of yielding to a cruel fate, when one pities oneself, had not come to her. Rebellion still persisted. Odette raged, uttered bitter words. The honeyed soothings of her friends only exasperated her. Other friends were continually coming up to see her. She fell into hysterics. The doctor had gone. The most determined of those present, "good" Rose Misson and Mme. de Blauve, a woman who inspired respect, took upon themselves to turn all the others out of the room and to close the front door against every one.