After dinner, Madame St.Lo touched the lute, and Badelon--Badelon who had seen the sack of the Colonna's Palace, and been served by cardinals on the knee--fed a water-rat, which had its home in one of the willow-stumps, with carrot-parings.

One by one the men laid themselves to sleep with their faces on their arms; and to the eyes all was as all had been yesterday in this camp of armed men living peacefully.
But not to the Countess! She had accepted her life, she had resigned herself, she had marvelled that it was no worse.

After the horrors of Paris the calm of the last two days had fallen on her as balm on a wound.
Worn out in body and mind, she had rested, and only rested; without thought, almost without emotion, save for the feeling, half fear, half curiosity, which stirred her in regard to the strange man, her husband.
Who on his side left her alone.
But the last hour had wrought a change.

Her eyes were grown restless, her colour came and went.

The past stirred in its shallow--ah, so shallow--grave; and dead hopes and dead forebodings, strive as she might, thrust out hands to plague and torment her.