Ah! those clean, white sheets, so long coveted, so ardently desired; Jean had eyes for naught save them.  For six weeks he had not had his clothes off, had not slept in a bed.  He was as impatient as a child waiting for some promised treat, or a lover expectant of his mistress’s coming; the time seemed long, terribly long to him, until he could plunge into those cool, white depths and lose himself there.  Quickly, as soon as he was alone, he removed his shoes and tossed his uniform across a chair, then, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, threw himself on the bed.  He opened his eyes a little way for a last look about him before his final plunge into unconsciousness, and in the pale morning light that streamed in through the lofty window beheld a repetition of his former pleasant vision, only fainter, more aerial; a vision of Henriette entering the room on tiptoe, and placing on the table at his side a water-jug and glass that had been forgotten before.  She seemed to linger there a moment, looking at the sleeping pair, him and her brother, with her tranquil, ineffably tender smile upon her lips, then faded into air, and he, between his white sheets, was as if he were not.

Hours—­or was it years? slipped by; Jean and Maurice were like dead men, without a dream, without consciousness of the life that was within them.  Whether it was ten years or ten minutes, time had stood still for them; the overtaxed body had risen against its oppressor and annihilated their every faculty.  They awoke simultaneously with a great start and looked at each other inquiringly; where were they? what had happened? how long had they slept?  The same pale light was entering through the tall window.  They felt as if they had been racked; joints stiffer, limbs wearier, mouth more hot and dry than when they had lain down; they could not have slept more than an hour, fortunately.  It did not surprise them to see Weiss sitting where they had seen him before, in the same dejected attitude, apparently waiting for them to awake.

“Fichtre!” exclaimed Jean, “we must get up and report ourselves to the first sergeant before noon.”

He uttered a smothered cry of pain as he jumped to the floor and began to dress.

“Before noon!” said Weiss.  “Are you aware that it is seven o’clock in the evening?  You have slept about twelve hours.”

Great heavens, seven o’clock!  They were thunderstruck.  Jean, who by that time was completely dressed, would have run for it, but Maurice, still in bed, found he no longer had control of his legs; how were they ever to find their comrades? would not the army have marched away?  They took Weiss to task for having let them sleep so long.  But the accountant shook his head sorrowfully and said: 

“You have done just as well to remain in bed, for all that has been accomplished.”

All that day, from early morning, he had been scouring Sedan and its environs in quest of news, and was just come in, discouraged with the inactivity of the troops and the inexplicable delay that had lost them the whole of that precious day, the 31st.  The sole excuse was that the men were worn out and rest was an absolute necessity for them, but granting that, he could not see why the retreat should not have been continued after giving them a few hours of repose.