might be dying, whom they would otherwise have saved!  For the nursing of soldiers was the old nun’s specialty; she had been in the Crimea, in Italy, in Austria; and as she told the story of her campaigns she revealed herself as one of those holy sisters of the fife and drum who seem designed by nature to follow camps, to snatch the wounded from amid the strife of battle, and to quell with a word, more effectually than any general, the rough and insubordinate troopers—­a masterful woman, her seamed and pitted face itself an image of the devastations of war.

No one spoke when she had finished for fear of spoiling the excellent effect of her words.

As soon as the meal was over the travellers retired to their rooms, whence they emerged the following day at a late hour of the morning.

Luncheon passed off quietly.  The seed sown the preceding evening was being given time to germinate and bring forth fruit.

In the afternoon the countess proposed a walk; then the count, as had been arranged beforehand, took Boule de Suif’s arm, and walked with her at some distance behind the rest.

He began talking to her in that familiar, paternal, slightly contemptuous tone which men of his class adopt in speaking to women like her, calling her “my dear child,” and talking down to her from the height of his exalted social position and stainless reputation.  He came straight to the point.

“So you prefer to leave us here, exposed like yourself to all the violence which would follow on a repulse of the Prussian troops, rather than consent to surrender yourself, as you have done so many times in your life?”

The girl did not reply.

He tried kindness, argument, sentiment.  He still bore himself as count, even while adopting, when desirable, an attitude of gallantry, and making pretty—­nay, even tender—­speeches.  He exalted the service she would render them, spoke of their gratitude; then, suddenly, using the familiar “thou”: 

“And you know, my dear, he could boast then of having made a conquest of a pretty girl such as he won’t often find in his own country.”

Boule de Suif did not answer, and joined the rest of the party.

As soon as they returned she went to her room, and was seen no more.  The general anxiety was at its height.  What would she do?  If she still resisted, how awkward for them all!

The dinner hour struck; they waited for her in vain.  At last Monsieur Follenvie entered, announcing that Mademoiselle Rousset was not well, and that they might sit down to table.  They all pricked up their ears.  The count drew near the innkeeper, and whispered: 

“Is it all right?”

“Yes.”

Out of regard for propriety he said nothing to his companions, but merely nodded slightly toward them.  A great sigh of relief went up from all breasts; every face was lighted up with joy.