the Belgian frontier, and there was no one left to guard the property
but the woman concierge, Francoise Quittard by name, the widow of a
mason; and she also, beside herself with terror, would have gone with
the others had it not been for her ten-year-old boy Charles, who was
so ill with typhoid fever that he could not be moved.

"I say," Delaherche continued, "do you hear that? It is a promising
beginning. Our best course is to get back to Sedan as soon as
possible."

Weiss's promise to his wife, that he would leave Bazeilles at the
first sign of danger, had been given in perfect good faith, and he had
fully intended to keep it; but as yet there was only an artillery duel
at long range, and the aim could not be accurate enough to do much
damage in the uncertain, misty light of early morning.

"Wait a bit, confound it!" he replied. "There is no hurry."

Delaherche, too, was curious to see what would happen; his curiosity
made him valiant. He had been so interested in the preparations for
defending the place that he had not slept a wink. General Lebrun,
commanding the 12th corps, had received notice that he would be
attacked at daybreak, and had kept his men occupied during the night
in strengthening the defenses of Bazeilles, which he had instructions
to hold in spite of everything. Barricades had been thrown up across
the Douzy road, and all the smaller streets; small parties of soldiers
had been thrown into the houses by way of garrison; every narrow lane,
every garden had become a fortress, and since three o'clock the
troops, awakened from their slumbers without beat of drum or call of
bugle in the inky blackness, had been at their posts, their chassepots