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Updated: June 3, 2025
It appeared, then, that the house of the widow Lacour, a short time before the opening of our story, had been broken into by four villains, named Belleville, Descartes, Monval, and Lassalle. They were all men of bad habits, and urgently necessitous, but yet of decent education and family. Hearing a noise in the kitchen, Maria descended only in time to witness the death pangs of the mother.
His friend Lacour had again spoken to him about the Lauriers. He knew that Marguerite was going to become a mother, and the old man, without taking into account the reconciliation nor the passage of time, felt as much moved at the thought of this approaching maternity as though the child were going to be Julio's.
"Ah!" said Valdorême; and Henri saw with dismay the fires deep down in her eyes rekindle. But she merely gave some instructions to an assistant, and, turning to Lacour, asked him to be so good as to follow her. She led him through the shop and up a stair at the back, throwing open a door on the first floor. Lacour entered a neat drawing-room, with windows opening out upon the street.
The mountain was thundering, the shell whining, the horizon, still tranquil, was bristling with black, spiral columns. The two realized more and more how snug they were in this retreat, like a box at the theatre. Someone touched Lacour on the shoulder. It was one of the captains who was conducting them through the front. "We are going above," he said simply.
Julio was wounded. But at the same time that Lacour bought him this news, lamentably delayed, he tranquilized him with the result of his investigations in the war ministry. Sergeant Desnoyers was now a sub-lieutenant, his wound was almost healed and, thanks to the wire-pulling of the senator, he was coming to pass a fortnight with his family while convalescing.
"Whenever you say, Senator Lacour, we will begin," said the Commandant, reaching the topmost notch of his courtesy. "Are you ready?" Desnoyers smiled slightly. For what was his illustrious friend to make himself ready? What difference could it possibly make to a mere spectator, much interested in the novelty of the show? . . .
The Chief pointed to the second wire fence which Lacour and his friend had supposed belonged to the French. It was the German intrenchment line. "We are only a hundred yards away from them," he continued, "but for some time they have not been attacking from this side."
From time to time, the sad pedestrian met living bands of men platoons of cavalry, gendarmes, Zouaves and chasseurs encamped around the ruined farmsteads, exploring the country in pursuit of German fugitives. Don Marcelo had to explain his business there, showing the passport that Lacour had given him in order to make his trip on the military train. Only in this way, could he continue his journey.
She withdrew her kid glove, and presented, playfully, a hand so white, so delicately veined, and small, that Lacour could no longer doubt that he was addressing a lady. He raised the hand respectfully to his lips.
Inflamed by this deadly activity, frenzied by the destructive celerity, dominated by the dizzying sway of the ruby leaves, Lacour and Desnoyers found themselves waving their hats, leaping from one side to another as though they were dancing the sacred dance of death, and shouting with mouths dry from the acrid vapor of the powder. . . . "Hurrah! . . . Hurrah!"
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