Do not despair, old military France!  You will always have these simple-hearted soldiers who are ready to sacrifice themselves for your flag, ready to serve you for a morsel of bread, and to die for you, bequeathing their widows and orphans to you!  Do not despair, old France of the one hundred years’ war and of ’92!

The brothers, who wore upon their black robes the red Geneva cross, were kneeling around the body and praying in a low tone.  The assistant surgeon noticed Amedee Violette for the first time, standing motionless in a corner of the room.

“What are you doing here?” he asked him, brusquely.

“I am this poor officer’s friend,” Amedee replied, pointing to Maurice.

“So be it! stay with him—­if he asks for a drink you have the tea there upon the stove.  You, gentlemen,” added he, addressing the brothers, who arose after making the sign of the cross, “you will return to the battle-field, I suppose?”

They silently bowed their heads, the eldest of them closed the dead man’s eyes.  As they were all going out together, the assistant surgeon said to them, in a petulant tone of voice: 

“Try to bring me some not quite so much used up.”

Maurice Roger was about to die, too.  His shirt was stained with blood, and a stream ran down from his forehead upon his blond moustache, but he was still beautiful in his marble-like pallor.  Amedee carefully raised up one of the wounded man’s arms and placed it upon the stretcher, keeping his friend’s hand in his own.  Maurice moved slightly at the touch, and ended by opening his eyes.

“Ah, how thirsty I am!” he groaned.

Amedee went to the stove and got the pot of tea, and leaned over to help the unfortunate man drink it.  Maurice looked at him with surprise.  He recognized Amedee.

“You, Amedee!—­where am I, then?”

He attempted in vain to rise.  His head dropped slightly to the left, and he saw, not two steps from him, the lifeless body of his old colonel, with eyes closed and features already calmed by the first moments of perfect repose.

“My Colonel!” said he.  “Ah!  I understand—­I remember-!  How they ran away—­miserable cowards!  But you, Amedee?  Why are you here—?”

His friend could not restrain his tears, and Maurice murmured: 

“Done for, am I not?”

“No, no!” exclaimed Amedee, with animation.  “They are going to dress your wounds at once—­They will come soon!  Courage, my good Maurice!  Courage!”

Suddenly the wounded man had a terrible chill; his teeth chattered, and he said again: 

“I am thirsty!—­something to drink, my friend!—­give me something to drink!”

A few swallows of tea calmed him a little.  He closed his eyes as if to rest, but a moment after he opened them, and, fixing them upon his friend’s face, he said to him in a faint voice: 

“You know—­Maria, my wife—­marry her—­I confide them to you—­she and my son—­”