In the crush on the Place de Torcy that ensued upon the entrance of the troops into the city Jean became separated from Maurice, and all his attempts to find him again among the surging crowd were fruitless.  It was a piece of extreme ill-luck, for he had accepted the young man’s invitation to go with him to his sister’s, where there would be rest and food for them, and even the luxury of a comfortable bed.  The confusion was so great—­the regiments disintegrated, no discipline, and no officers to enforce it—­that the men were free to do pretty much as they pleased.  There was plenty of time to look about them and hunt up their commands; they would have a few hours of sleep first.

Jean in his bewilderment found himself on the viaduct of Torcy, overlooking the broad meadows which, by the governor’s orders, had been flooded with water from the river.  Then, passing through another archway and crossing the Pont de Meuse, he entered the old, rampart-girt city, where, among the tall and crowded houses and the damp, narrow streets, it seemed to him that night was descending again, notwithstanding the increasing daylight.  He could not so much as remember the name of Maurice’s brother-in-law; he only knew that his sister’s name was Henriette.  The outlook was not encouraging; all that kept him awake was the automatic movement of walking; he felt that he should drop were he to stop.  The indistinct ringing in his ears was the same that is experienced by one drowning; he was only conscious of the ceaseless onpouring of the stream of men and animals that carried him along with it on its current.  He had partaken of food at Remilly, sleep was now his great necessity; and the same was true of the shadowy bands that he saw flitting past him in those strange, fantastic streets.  At every moment a man would sink upon the sidewalk or tumble into a doorway, and there would remain, as if struck by death.

Raising his eyes, Jean read upon a signboard:  Avenue de la Sous-Prefecture.  At the end of the street was a monument standing in a public garden, and at the corner of the avenue he beheld a horseman, a chasseur d’Afrique, whose face seemed familiar to him.  Was it not Prosper, the young man from Remilly, whom he had seen in Maurice’s company at Vouziers?  Perhaps he had been sent in with dispatches.  He had dismounted, and his skeleton of a horse, so weak that he could scarcely stand, was trying to satisfy his hunger by gnawing at the tail-board of an army wagon that was drawn up against the curb.  There had been no forage for the animals for the last two days, and they were literally dying of starvation.  The big strong teeth rasped pitifully on the woodwork of the wagon, while the soldier stood by and wept as he watched the poor brute.