He walked over to the bed and drew the curtains. An old man was lying among the tumbled sheets.

“Better?” smiled Trent.

“Better,” repeated the man wearily; and, after a pause, “Have you any news, Monsieur Jack?”

“I haven’t been out today. I will bring you any rumour I may hear, though goodness knows I’ve got enough of rumours,” he muttered to himself. Then aloud: “Cheer up; you’re looking better.”

“And the sortie?”

“Oh, the sortie, that’s for this week. General Trochu sent orders last night.”

“It will be terrible.”

“It will be sickening,” thought Trent as he went out into the street and turned the corner toward the Rue de Seine; “slaughter, slaughter, phew! I’m glad I’m not going.”