“He was shot in the next street; Jean says he never wished to go with them, but they forced him along.  After that he got into a doorway, where he might have hidden himself, but Fort saw him, and denounced him.  Fort might have left him alone, as it was he your husband was trying to persuade, but at such a time men look after their own skins.  They dragged him out and set him up with some others against a wall, and that was the end of him, and of a good many others.”

His listener flung up her hands with a gesture of wild despair, and turned her face to the wall, speechless.  The man, who was by trade a trieur or chief chiffonnier, seeing Plon’s head appear, turned round and addressed himself to him.

“Fort is a traitor, he has denounced others.  They will be here presently searching for arms.  It is short work I can tell you.”

“And my—­my locataire is shot!” murmured Plon, panic-struck.  But the man whose mission was ended, turned round without another word and went out into the lurid darkness.

The landlord made a trembling effort to stagger across the passage, and to pluck at Marie’s gown.  When he spoke, his voice quavered with fright.

“Come, come, Madame Didier, go upstairs, and—­and—­cry there like a good woman.  Here it isn’t safe.  Besides, if they know who you are, I might be compromised.  Poor Jean!  Heavens!—­”

For a volley of rifle shot poured down the street, a rush of feet followed; and Plon fled precipitously to his den, double-bolted his door, and rolled his mattress round him for protection.  Marie Didier slowly turned her head, and, as if recognising the wisdom of his advice, felt her way along the wall and groped up the dark staircase.  No one had lit the small oil lamp on the premier, but light from burning houses flashed in at windows; a child had been killed by the fragment of a shell, and the mother was loudly wailing; some were peering out of their doorways; they stared at Marie, who crept up like a ghost.  In this rookery the young couple had kept themselves apart, and had no friends.  But it was instinctively known that something had happened to Jean, and only one woman was bold enough to question the wife.  She answered steadily in a strange strained voice: 

“They are searching the houses.  We shall have them soon.”

It was, however, an hour before a party of soldiers made a rough visitation.  They dragged Plon out of his mattress, and made him climb the stairs, panting and protesting.  When they reached the top garret, Marie was sitting in the darkness, with her arms on the poor table; she did not move as they entered.

“Bring in the lantern!” shouted the sergeant.  “Now, good woman, who have you got hiding here?”

She turned a white face upon him, speechless.  Plon, who was recovering his pomposity, pressed forward, and laid a hand on the soldier’s arm.

“Don’t worry her, sergeant,” he said, “her husband has just been shot.”