“It is he.”

“Madame Weiss,” cried the servant, “here is a soldier who has been inquiring for you.”

There came the sound of a low, pleased laugh, and the same soft voice replied: 

“Good! good!  I know who it is.”  Then to the corporal, who was hesitating, rather diffidently, on the landing:  “Come in, Monsieur Jean.  Maurice has been here nearly two hours, and we have been wondering what detained you.”

Then, in the pale sunlight that filled the room, he saw how like she was to Maurice, with that wonderful resemblance that often makes twins so like each other as to be indistinguishable.  She was smaller and slighter than he, however; more fragile in appearance, with a rather large mouth and delicately molded features, surmounted by an opulence of the most beautiful hair imaginable, of the golden yellow of ripened grain.  The feature where she least resembled him was her gray eyes, great calm, brave orbs, instinct with the spirit of the grandfather, the hero of the Grand Army.  She used few words, was noiseless in her movements, and was so gentle, so cheerful, so helpfully active that where she passed her presence seemed to linger in the air, like a fragrant caress.

“Come this way, Monsieur Jean,” she said.  “Everything will soon be ready for you.”

He stammered something inarticulately, for his emotion was such that he could find no word of thanks.  In addition to that his eyes were closing he beheld her through the irresistible drowsiness that was settling on him as a sea-fog drifts in and settles on the land, in which she seemed floating in a vague, unreal way, as if her feet no longer touched the earth.  Could it be that it was all a delightful apparition, that friendly young woman who smiled on him with such sweet simplicity?  He fancied for a moment that she had touched his hand and that he had felt the pressure of hers, cool and firm, loyal as the clasp of an old tried friend.

That was the last moment in which Jean was distinctly conscious of what was going on about him.  They were in the dining room; bread and meat were set out on the table, but for the life of him he could not have raised a morsel to his lips.  A man was there, seated on a chair.  Presently he knew it was Weiss, whom he had seen at Mulhausen, but he had no idea what the man was saying with such a sober, sorrowful air, with slow and emphatic gestures.  Maurice was already sound asleep, with the tranquillity of death resting on his face, on a bed that had been improvised for him beside the stove, and Henriette was busying herself about a sofa on which a mattress had been thrown; she brought in a bolster, pillow and coverings; with nimble, dexterous hands she spread the white sheets, snowy white, dazzling in their whiteness.