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The Weiss family lived in the Rue des Voyards, but their house, which was Delaherche’s property, communicated with the great structure in the Rue Maqua. The Rue des Voyards was at that time one of the most squalid streets in Sedan, being nothing more than a damp, narrow lane, its normal darkness intensified by the proximity of the ramparts, which ran parallel to it. The roofs of the tall houses almost met, the dark passages were like the mouths of caverns, and more particularly so at that end where rose the high college walls. Weiss, however, with free quarters and free fuel on his third floor, found the location a convenient one on account of its nearness to his office, to which he could descend in slippers without having to go around by the street. His life had been a happy one since his marriage with Henriette, so long the object of his hopes and wishes since first he came to know her at Chene, filling her dead mother’s place when only six years old and keeping the house for her father, the tax-collector; while he, entering the big refinery almost on the footing of a laborer, was picking up an education as best he could, and fitting himself for the accountant’s position which was the reward of his unremitting toil. And even when he had attained to that measure of success his dream was not to be realized; not until the father had been removed by death, not until the brother at Paris had been guilty of those excesses: that brother Maurice to whom his twin sister had in some sort made herself a servant, to whom she had sacrificed her little all to make him a gentleman–not until then was Henriette to be his wife. She had never been aught more than a little drudge at home; she could barely read and write; she had sold house, furniture, all she had, to pay the young man’s debts, when good, kind Weiss came to her with the offer of his savings, together with his heart and his two strong arms; and she had accepted him with grateful tears, bringing him in return for his devotion a steadfast, virtuous affection, replete with tender esteem, if not the stormier ardors of a passionate love. Fortune had smiled on them; Delaherche had spoken of giving Weiss an interest in the business, and when children should come to bless their union their felicity would be complete.

“Look out!” the servant said to Jean; “the stairs are steep.”

He was stumbling upward as well as the intense darkness of the place would let him, when suddenly a door above was thrown open, a broad belt of light streamed out across the landing, and he heard a soft voice saying:

“It is he.”

“Madame Weiss,” cried the servant, “here is a soldier who has been inquiring for you.”

There came the sound of a low, pleased laugh, and the same soft voice replied:

“Good! good! I know who it is.” Then to the corporal, who was hesitating, rather diffidently, on the landing: “Come in, Monsieur Jean. Maurice has been here nearly two hours, and we have been wondering what detained you.”

Then, in the pale sunlight that filled the room, he saw how like she was to Maurice, with that wonderful resemblance that often makes twins so like each other as to be indistinguishable. She was smaller and slighter than he, however; more fragile in appearance, with a rather large mouth and delicately molded features, surmounted by an opulence of the most beautiful hair imaginable, of the golden yellow of ripened grain. The feature where she least resembled him was her gray eyes, great calm, brave orbs, instinct with the spirit of the grandfather, the hero of the Grand Army. She used few words, was noiseless in her movements, and was so gentle, so cheerful, so helpfully active that where she passed her presence seemed to linger in the air, like a fragrant caress.

“Come this way, Monsieur Jean,” she said. “Everything will soon be ready for you.”

He stammered something inarticulately, for his emotion was such that he could find no word of thanks. In addition to that his eyes were closing he beheld her through the irresistible drowsiness that was settling on him as a sea-fog drifts in and settles on the land, in which she seemed floating in a vague, unreal way, as if her feet no longer touched the earth. Could it be that it was all a delightful apparition, that friendly young woman who smiled on him with such sweet simplicity? He fancied for a moment that she had touched his hand and that he had felt the pressure of hers, cool and firm, loyal as the clasp of an old tried friend.