stopped, only a hundred steps from the position occupied by the National Guards, before a house where a provisionary hospital had been established, and left their least transportable ones there.  The morbid but powerful attraction that horrible sights exert over a man urged Amedee Violette to this spot.  This house had been spared from bombardment and protected from pillage and fire by the Geneva flag; it was a small cottage which realized the dream of every shopkeeper after he has made his fortune.  Nothing was lacking, not even the earthen lions at the steps, or the little garden with its glittering weather-vane, or the rock-work basin for goldfish.  On warm days the past summer passers-by might have seen very often, under the green arbor, bourgeoisie in their shirt-sleeves and women in light dresses eating melons together.  The poet’s imagination fancied at once this picture of a Parisian’s Sunday, when suddenly a young assistant appeared at an open window on the first floor, wiping his hands upon his blood-stained apron.  He leaned out and called to a hospital attendant, that Amedee had not noticed before, who was cutting linen upon a table in the garden: 

“Well, Vidal, you confounded dawdler,” exclaimed he, impatiently, “are those bandages ready?  Good God! are we to have them to-day or tomorrow?”

“Make room, if you please!” said at this moment a voice at Amedee’s elbow, who stepped aside for two stretchers borne by four brothers of the Christian doctrine to pass.  The poet gave a start and a cry of terror.  He recognized in the two wounded men Maurice Roger and Colonel Lantz.

Wounded, both of them, yes! and mortally.  Only one hour ago.

Affairs had turned out badly for us down there, then, on the borders of the Marne.  They did a foolish thing to rest one day and give the enemy time to concentrate his forces; when they wished to renew the attack they dashed against vast numbers and formidable artillery.  Two generals killed!  So many brave men sacrificed!  Now they beat a retreat once more and lose the ground.  One of the chief generals, with lowered head and drooping shoulders, more from discouragement than fatigue, stood glass in hand, observing from a distance our lines, which were breaking.

“If we could fortify ourselves there at least,” said he, pointing to an eminence which overlooked the river, “and establish a redoubt—­in one night with a hundred picks it could be done.  I do not believe that the enemy’s fire could reach this position—­it is a good one.”

“We could go there and see, General,” said some one, very quietly.

It was Pere Lantz, the “old dolphin,” who was standing there with Maurice beside him and three or four of the auxiliary engineers; and, upon my word, in spite of his cap, which seemed to date from the time of Horace Vernet’s “Smala,” the poor man, with his glasses upon his nose, long cloak, and pepper colored beard, had no more prestige than a policeman in a public square, one of those old fellows who chase children off the grass, threatening them with their canes.