A BELEAGUERED CITY BEING A NARRATIVE OF CERTAIN RECENT EVENTS IN THE CITY OF SEMUR, IN THEDEPARTMENT OF THE HAUTE BOURGOGNE A STORY OF THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN by Mrs. Oliphant 1900 THE AUTHOR inscribes this little Book, with tender and gratefulgreetings, to those whose sympathy has supported her through many andlong years, the kind audience of her UNKNOWN FRIENDS. THE NARRATIVE OF M. LE MAIRE: THE CONDITION OF THE CITY. I, Martin Dupin (de la Clairière), had the honour of holding the officeof Maire in the town of Semur, in the Haute Bourgogne, at the time whenthe following events occurred. It will be perceived, therefore, that noone could have more complete knowledge of the facts--at once from myofficial position, and from the place of eminence in the affairs of thedistrict generally which my family has held for many generations--bywhat citizen-like virtues and unblemished integrity I will not be vainenough to specify. Nor is it necessary; for no one who knows Semur canbe ignorant of the position held by the Dupins, from father to son. Theestate La Clairière has been so long in the family that we might verywell, were we disposed, add its name to our own, as so many families inFrance do; and, indeed, I do not prevent my wife (whose prejudices Irespect) from making this use of it upon her cards. But, for myself, _bourgeois_ I was born and _bourgeois_ I mean to die. My residence, likethat of my father and grandfather, is at No. 29 in the Grande Rue, opposite the Cathedral, and not far from the Hospital of St. Jean. Weinhabit the first floor, along with the _rez-de-chaussée, _ which hasbeen turned into domestic offices suitable for the needs of the family. My mother, holding a respected place in my household, lives with us inthe most perfect family union. My wife (_née_ de Champfleurie) iseverything that is calculated to render a household happy; but, alas oneonly of our two children survives to bless us. I have thought thesedetails of my private circumstances necessary, to explain the followingnarrative; to which I will also add, by way of introduction, a simplesketch of the town itself and its general conditions before theseremarkable events occurred. It was on a summer evening about sunset, the middle of the month ofJune, that my attention was attracted by an incident of no importancewhich occurred in the street, when I was making my way home, after aninspection of the young vines in my new vineyard to the left of LaClairière. All were in perfectly good condition, and none of the manysigns which point to the arrival of the insect were apparent. I had comeback in good spirits, thinking of the prosperity which I was happy tobelieve I had merited by a conscientious performance of all my duties. Ihad little with which to blame myself: not only my wife and relations, but my dependants and neighbours, approved my conduct as a man; and evenmy fellow-citizens, exacting as they are, had confirmed in my favour thegood opinion which my family had been fortunate enough to secure fromfather to son. These thoughts were in my mind as I turned the corner ofthe Grande Rue and approached my own house. At this moment the tinkle ofa little bell warned all the bystanders of the procession which wasabout to pass, carrying the rites of the Church to some dying person. Some of the women, always devout, fell on their knees. I did not go sofar as this, for I do not pretend, in these days of progress, to haveretained the same attitude of mind as that which it is no doubt becomingto behold in the more devout sex; but I stood respectfully out of theway, and took off my hat, as good breeding alone, if nothing else, demanded of me. Just in front of me, however, was Jacques Richard, always a troublesome individual, standing doggedly, with his hat uponhis head and his hands in his pockets, straight in the path of M. LeCuré. There is not in all France a more obstinate fellow. He stoodthere, notwithstanding the efforts of a good woman to draw him away, andthough I myself called to him. M. Le Curé is not the man to flinch; andas he passed, walking as usual very quickly and straight, his soutanebrushed against the blouse of Jacques. He gave one quick glance frombeneath his eyebrows at the profane interruption, but he would notdistract himself from his sacred errand at such a moment. It is a sacrederrand when any one, be he priest or layman, carries the best he cangive to the bedside of the dying. I said this to Jacques when M. Le Curéhad passed and the bell went tinkling on along the street. 'Jacques, 'said I, 'I do not call it impious, like this good woman, but I call itinhuman. What! a man goes to carry help to the dying, and you show himno respect!' This brought the colour to his face; and I think, perhaps, that he mighthave become ashamed of the part he had played; but the women pushed inagain, as they are so fond of doing. 'Oh, M. Le Maire, he does notdeserve that you should lose your words upon him!' they cried; 'and, besides, is it likely he will pay any attention to you when he tries tostop even the _bon Dieu_?' 'The _bon Dieu!_' cried Jacques. 'Why doesn't He clear the way forhimself? Look here. I do not care one farthing for your _bon Dieu_. Hereis mine; I carry him about with me. ' And he took a piece of a hundredsous out of his pocket (how had it got there?) '_Vive l'argent_' hesaid. 'You know it yourself, though you will not say so. There is no_bon Dieu_ but money. With money you can do anything. _L'argent c'est lebon Dieu_. ' 'Be silent, ' I cried, 'thou profane one!' And the women were still moreindignant than I. 'We shall see, we shall see; when he is ill and wouldgive his soul for something to wet his lips, his _bon Dieu_ will not domuch for him, ' cried one; and another said, clasping her hands with ashrill cry, 'It is enough to make the dead rise out of their graves!' 'The dead rise out of their graves!' These words, though one has heardthem before, took possession of my imagination. I saw the rude fellow goalong the street as I went on, tossing the coin in his hand. One time itfell to the ground and rang upon the pavement, and he laughed moreloudly as he picked it up. He was walking towards the sunset, and I too, at a distance after. The sky was full of rose-tinted clouds floatingacross the blue, floating high over the grey pinnacles of the Cathedral, and filling the long open line of the Rue St. Etienne down which he wasgoing. As I crossed to my own house I caught him full against the light, in his blue blouse, tossing the big silver piece in the air, and heardhim laugh and shout _'Vive l'argent!_ This is the only _bon Dieu_. 'Though there are many people who live as if this were their sentiment, there are few who give it such brutal expression; but some of the peopleat the corner of the street laughed too. 'Bravo, Jacques!' they cried;and one said, 'You are right, _mon ami_, the only god to trust innowadays. ' 'It is a short _credo_, M. Le Maire, ' said another, whocaught my eye. He saw I was displeased, this one, and his countenancechanged at once. 'Yes, Jean Pierre, ' I said, 'it is worse than short--it is brutal. Ihope no man who respects himself will ever countenance it. It is againstthe dignity of human nature, if nothing more. ' 'Ah, M. Le Maire!' cried a poor woman, one of the good ladies of themarket, with entrenchments of baskets all round her, who had beenwalking my way; 'ah, M. Le Maire! did not I say true? it is enough tobring the dead out of their graves. ' 'That would be something to see, ' said Jean Pierre, with a laugh; 'and Ihope, _ma bonne femme_, that if you have any interest with them, youwill entreat these gentlemen to appear before I go away. ' 'I do not like such jesting, ' said I. 'The dead are very dead and willnot disturb anybody, but even the prejudices of respectable personsought to be respected. A ribald like Jacques counts for nothing, but Idid not expect this from you. ' 'What would you, M. Le Maire?' he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. 'We are made like that. I respect prejudices as you say. My wife is agood woman, she prays for two--but me! How can I tell that Jacques isnot right after all? A _grosse pièce_ of a hundred sous, one sees that, one knows what it can do--but for the other!' He thrust up one shoulderto his ear, and turned up the palms of his hands. 'It is our duty at all times to respect the convictions of others, ' Isaid, severely; and passed on to my own house, having no desire toencourage discussions at the street corner. A man in my position isobliged to be always mindful of the example he ought to set. But I hadnot yet done with this phrase, which had, as I have said, caught my earand my imagination. My mother was in the great _salle_ of the_rez-de-chausée, _ as I passed, in altercation with a peasant who hadjust brought us in some loads of wood. There is often, it seems to me, asort of _refrain_ in conversation, which one catches everywhere as onecomes and goes. Figure my astonishment when I heard from the lips of mygood mother the same words with which that good-for-nothing JacquesRichard had made the profession of his brutal faith. 'Go!' she cried, inanger; 'you are all the same. Money is your god. _De grosses pièces_, that is all you think of in these days. ' '_Eh, bien, _ madame, ' said the peasant; 'and if so, what then? Don't youothers, gentlemen and ladies, do just the same? What is there in theworld but money to think of? If it is a question of marriage, you demandwhat is the _dot_; if it is a question of office, you ask, MonsieurUntel, is he rich? And it is perfectly just. We know what money can do;but as for _le bon Dieu_, whom our grandmothers used to talk about--' And lo! our _gros paysan_ made exactly the same gesture as Jean Pierre. He put up his shoulders to his ears, and spread out the palms of hishands, as who should say, There is nothing further to be said. Then there occurred a still more remarkable repetition. My mother, asmay be supposed, being a very respectable person, and more or less_dévote_, grew red with indignation and horror. 'Oh, these poor grandmothers!' she cried; 'God give them rest! It isenough to make the dead rise out of their graves. ' 'Oh, I will answer for _les morts_! they will give nobody any trouble, 'he said with a laugh. I went in and reproved the man severely, findingthat, as I supposed, he had attempted to cheat my good mother in theprice of the wood. Fortunately she had been quite as clever as he was. She went upstairs shaking her head, while I gave the man to understandthat no one should speak to her but with the profoundest respect in myhouse. 'She has her opinions, like all respectable ladies, ' I said, 'but under this roof these opinions shall always be sacred. ' And, to dohim justice, I will add that when it was put to him in this wayGros-Jean was ashamed of himself. When I talked over these incidents with my wife, as we gave each otherthe narrative of our day's experiences, she was greatly distressed, asmay be supposed. 'I try to hope they are not so bad as Bonne Mamanthinks. But oh, _mon ami!_' she said, 'what will the world come to ifthis is what they really believe?' 'Take courage, ' I said; 'the world will never come to anything muchdifferent from what it is. So long as there are _des anges_ like thee topray for us, the scale will not go down to the wrong side. ' I said this, of course, to please my Agnès, who is the best of wives;but on thinking it over after, I could not but be struck with theextreme justice (not to speak of the beauty of the sentiment) of thisthought. The _bon Dieu_--if, indeed, that great Being is as representedto us by the Church--must naturally care as much for one-half of Hiscreatures as for the other, though they have not the same weight in theworld; and consequently the faith of the women must hold the balancestraight, especially if, as is said, they exceed us in point of numbers. This leaves a little margin for those of them who profess the samefreedom of thought as is generally accorded to men--a class, I must add, which I abominate from the bottom of my heart. I need not dwell upon other little scenes which impressed the same ideastill more upon my mind. Semur, I need not say, is not the centre of theworld, and might, therefore, be supposed likely to escape the fullcurrent of worldliness. We amuse ourselves little, and we have not anyopportunity of rising to the heights of ambition; for our town is noteven the _chef-lieu_ of the department, --though this is a subject uponwhich I cannot trust myself to speak. Figure to yourself that LaRochette--a place of yesterday, without either the beauty or theantiquity of Semur--has been chosen as the centre of affairs, theresidence of M. Le Préfet! But I will not enter upon this question. WhatI was saying was, that, notwithstanding the fact that we amuse ourselvesbut little, that there is no theatre to speak of, little society, fewdistractions, and none of those inducements to strive for gain and toindulge the senses, which exist, for instance, in Paris--that capital ofthe world--yet, nevertheless, the thirst for money and for pleasure hasincreased among us to an extent which I cannot but consider alarming. Gros-Jean, our peasant, toils for money, and hoards; Jacques, who is acooper and maker of wine casks, gains and drinks; Jean Pierre snatchesat every sous that comes in his way, and spends it in yet worsedissipations. He is one who quails when he meets my eye; he sins _encachette_; but Jacques is bold, and defies opinion; and Gros-Jean isfirm in the belief that to hoard money is the highest of mortaloccupations. These three are types of what the population is at Semur. The men would all sell their souls for a _grosse pièce_ of fiftysous--indeed, they would laugh, and express their delight that any oneshould believe them to love souls, if they could but have a chance ofselling them; and the devil, who was once supposed to deal in thatcommodity, would be very welcome among us. And as for the _bonDieu--pouff!_ that was an affair of the grandmothers--_le bon Dieu c'estl'argent_. This is their creed. I was very near the beginning of myofficial year as Maire when my attention was called to these matters asI have described above. A man may go on for years keeping quiethimself--keeping out of tumult, religious or political--and make nodiscovery of the general current of feeling; but when you are forced toserve your country in any official capacity, and when your eyes areopened to the state of affairs around you, then I allow that aninexperienced observer might well cry out, as my wife did, 'What willbecome of the world?' I am not prejudiced myself--unnecessary to saythat the foolish scruples of the women do not move me. But the devotionof the community at large to this pursuit of gain-money without anygrandeur, and pleasure without any refinement--that is a thing whichcannot fail to wound all who believe in human nature. To be amillionaire--that, I grant, would be pleasant. A man as rich as MonteChristo, able to do whatever he would, with the equipage of an Englishduke, the palace of an Italian prince, the retinue of a Russiannoble--he, indeed, might be excused if his money seemed to him a kind ofgod. But Gros-Jean, who lays up two sous at a time, and lives on blackbread and an onion; and Jacques, whose _grosse pièce_ but secures himthe headache of a drunkard next morning--what to them could be thismiserable deity? As for myself, however, it was my business, as Maireof the commune, to take as little notice as possible of the folliesthese people might say, and to hold the middle course between theprejudices of the respectable and the levities of the foolish. Withthis, without more, to think of, I had enough to keep all my facultiesemployed. THE NARRATIVE OF M. LE MAIRE CONTINUED: BEGINNING OF THE LATE REMARKABLEEVENTS. I do not attempt to make out any distinct connection between the simpleincidents above recorded, and the extraordinary events that followed. Ihave related them as they happened; chiefly by way of showing the stateof feeling in the city, and the sentiment which pervaded thecommunity--a sentiment, I fear, too common in my country. I need not saythat to encourage superstition is far from my wish. I am a man of mycentury, and proud of being so; very little disposed to yield to thedomination of the clerical party, though desirous of showing all justtolerance for conscientious faith, and every respect for the prejudicesof the ladies of my family. I am, moreover, all the more inclined to becareful of giving in my adhesion to any prodigy, in consequence of aconsciousness that the faculty of imagination has always been one of mycharacteristics. It usually is so, I am aware, in superior minds, and ithas procured me many pleasures unknown to the common herd. Had it beenpossible for me to believe that I had been misled by this faculty, Ishould have carefully refrained from putting upon record any account ofmy individual impressions; but my attitude here is not that of a manrecording his personal experiences only, but of one who is the officialmouthpiece and representative of the commune, and whose duty it is torender to government and to the human race a true narrative of the verywonderful facts to which every citizen of Semur can bear witness. Inthis capacity it has become my duty so to arrange and edit the differentaccounts of the mystery, as to present one coherent and trustworthychronicle to the world. To proceed, however, with my narrative. It is not necessary for me todescribe what summer is in the Haute Bourgogne. Our generous wines, ourglorious fruits, are sufficient proof, without any assertion on my part. The summer with us is as a perpetual _fête_--at least, before the insectappeared it was so, though now anxiety about the condition of our vinesmay cloud our enjoyment of the glorious sunshine which ripens themhourly before our eyes. Judge, then, of the astonishment of the worldwhen there suddenly came upon us a darkness as in the depth of winter, falling, without warning, into the midst of the brilliant weather towhich we are accustomed, and which had never failed us before in thememory of man! It was the month of July, when, in ordinary seasons, acloud is so rare that it is a joy to see one, merely as a variety uponthe brightness. Suddenly, in the midst of our summer delights, thisdarkness came. Its first appearance took us so entirely by surprise thatlife seemed to stop short, and the business of the whole town wasdelayed by an hour or two; nobody being able to believe that at sixo'clock in the morning the sun had not risen. I do not assert that thesun did not rise; all I mean to say is that at Semur it was still dark, as in a morning of winter, and when it gradually and slowly became daymany hours of the morning were already spent. And never shall I forgetthe aspect of day when it came. It was like a ghost or pale shadow ofthe glorious days of July with which we are usually blessed. Thebarometer did not go down, nor was there any rain, but an unusualgreyness wrapped earth and sky. I heard people say in the streets, and Iam aware that the same words came to my own lips: 'If it were not fullsummer, I should say it was going to snow. ' We have much snow in theHaute Bourgogne, and we are well acquainted with this aspect of theskies. Of the depressing effect which this greyness exercised uponmyself personally, greyness exercised upon myself personally, I will notspeak. I have always been noted as a man of fine perceptions, and I wasaware instinctively that such a state of the atmosphere must meansomething more than was apparent on the surface. But, as the danger wasof an entirely unprecedented character, it is not to be wondered at thatI should be completely at a loss to divine what its meaning was. It wasa blight some people said; and many were of opinion that it was causedby clouds of animalculæ coming, as is described in ancient writings, todestroy the crops, and even to affect the health of the population. Thedoctors scoffed at this; but they talked about malaria, which, as far asI could understand, was likely to produce exactly the same effect. Thenight closed in early as the day had dawned late; the lamps were lightedbefore six o'clock, and daylight had only begun about ten! Figure toyourself, a July day! There ought to have been a moon almost at thefull; but no moon was visible, no stars--nothing but a grey veil ofclouds, growing darker and darker as the moments went on; such I haveheard are the days and the nights in England, where the seafogs so oftenblot out the sky. But we are unacquainted with anything of the kind inour _plaisant pays de France_. There was nothing else talked of in Semurall that night, as may well be imagined. My own mind was extremelyuneasy. Do what I would, I could not deliver myself from a sense ofsomething dreadful in the air which was neither malaria nor animalculæ, I took a promenade through the streets that evening, accompanied by M. Barbou, my _adjoint_, to make sure that all was safe; and the darknesswas such that we almost lost our way, though we were both born in thetown and had known every turning from our boyhood. It cannot be deniedthat Semur is very badly lighted. We retain still the lanterns slung bycords across the streets which once were general in France, but which, in most places, have been superseded by the modern institution of gas. Gladly would I have distinguished my term of office by bringing gas toSemur. But the expense would have been great, and there were a hundredobjections. In summer generally, the lanterns were of little consequencebecause of the brightness of the sky; but to see them now, twinklingdimly here and there, making us conscious how dark it was, was strangeindeed. It was in the interests of order that we took our round, with afear, in my mind at least, of I knew not what. M. L'Adjoint saidnothing, but no doubt he thought as I did. While we were thus patrolling the city with a special eye to theprevention of all seditious assemblages, such as are too apt to takeadvantage of any circumstances that may disturb the ordinary life of acity, or throw discredit on its magistrates, we were accosted by PaulLecamus, a man whom I have always considered as something of avisionary, though his conduct is irreproachable, and his lifehonourable and industrious. He entertains religious convictions of acurious kind; but, as the man is quite free from revolutionarysentiments, I have never considered it to be my duty to interfere withhim, or to investigate his creed. Indeed, he has been treated generallyin Semur as a dreamer of dreams--one who holds a great manyimpracticable and foolish opinions--though the respect which I alwaysexact for those whose lives are respectable and worthy has been aprotection to hire. He was, I think, aware that he owed something to mygood offices, and it was to me accordingly that he addressed himself. 'Good evening, M. Le Maire, ' he said; 'you are groping about, likemyself, in this strange night. ' 'Good evening M. Paul, ' I replied. 'It is, indeed, a strange night. Itindicates, I fear, that a storm is coming. ' M. Paul shook his head. There is a solemnity about even his ordinaryappearance. He has a long face, pale, and adorned with a heavy, droopingmoustache, which adds much to the solemn impression made by hiscountenance. He looked at me with great gravity as he stood in theshadow of the lamp, and slowly shook his head. 'You do not agree with me? Well! the opinion of a man like M. PaulLecamus is always worthy to be heard. ' 'Oh!' he said, 'I am called visionary. I am not supposed to be atrustworthy witness. Nevertheless, if M. Le Maire will come with me, Iwill show him something that is very strange--something that is almostmore wonderful than the darkness--more strange, ' he went on with greatearnestness, 'than any storm that ever ravaged Burgundy. ' 'That is much to say. A tempest now when the vines are in fullbearing--' 'Would be nothing, nothing to what I can show you. Only come with me tothe Porte St. Lambert. ' 'If M. Le Maire will excuse me, ' said M. Barbou, 'I think I will gohome. It is a little cold, and you are aware that I am always afraid ofthe damp. ' In fact, our coats were beaded with a cold dew as inNovember, and I could not but acknowledge that my respectable colleaguehad reason. Besides, we were close to his house, and he had, no doubt, the sustaining consciousness of having done everything that was reallyincumbent upon him. 'Our ways lie together as far as my house, ' he said, with a slight chattering of his teeth. No doubt it was the cold. Afterwe had walked with him to his door, we proceeded to the Porte St. Lambert. By this time almost everybody had re-entered their houses. Thestreets were very dark, and they were also very still. When we reachedthe gates, at that hour of the night, we found them shut as a matter ofcourse. The officers of the _octroi_ were standing close together at thedoor of their office, in which the lamp was burning. The very lampseemed oppressed by the heavy air; it burnt dully, surrounded with ayellow haze. The men had the appearance of suffering greatly from cold. They received me with a satisfaction which was very gratifying to me. 'At length here is M. Le Maire himself, ' they said. 'My good friends, ' said I, 'you have a cold post to-night. The weatherhas changed in the most extraordinary way. I have no doubt thescientific gentlemen at the Musée will be able to tell us all aboutit--M. De Clairon--' 'Not to interrupt M. Le Maire, ' said Riou, of the _octroi_, 'I thinkthere is more in it than any scientific gentleman can explain. ' 'Ah! You think so. But they explain everything, ' I said, with a smile. 'They tell us how the wind is going to blow. ' As I said this, there seemed to pass us, from the direction of theclosed gates, a breath of air so cold that I could not restrain ashiver. They looked at each other. It was not a smile that passedbetween them--they were too pale, too cold, to smile but a look ofintelligence. 'M. Le Maire, ' said one of them, 'perceives it too;' butthey did not shiver as I did. They were like men turned into ice whocould feel no more. 'It is, without doubt, the most extraordinary weather, ' I said. My teethchattered like Barbou's. It was all I could do to keep myself steady. Noone made any reply; but Lecamus said, 'Have the goodness to open thelittle postern for foot-passengers: M. Le Maire wishes to make aninspection outside. ' Upon these words, Riou, who knew me well, caught me by the arm. 'Athousand pardons, ' he said, 'M. Le Maire; but I entreat you, do not go. Who can tell what is outside? Since this morning there is something verystrange on the other side of the gates. If M. Le Maire would listen tome, he would keep them shut night and day till _that_ is gone, he wouldnot go out into the midst of it. _Mon Dieu!_ a man may be brave. I knowthe courage of M. Le Maire; but to march without necessity into thejaws of hell: _mon Dieu!_' cried the poor man again. He crossed himself, and none of us smiled. Now a man may sign himself at the churchdoor--one does so out of respect; but to use that ceremony for one's ownadvantage, before other men, is rare--except in the case of members of avery decided party. Riou was not one of these. He signed himself insight of us all, and not one of us smiled. The other was less familiar--he knew me only in my public capacity--hewas one Gallais of the Quartier St. Médon. He said, taking off his hat:'If I were M. Le Maire, saving your respect, I would not go out into anunknown danger with this man here, a man who is known as a pietist, as aclerical, as one who sees visions--' 'He is not a clerical, he is a good citizen, ' I said; 'come, lend usyour lantern. Shall I shrink from my duty wherever it leads me? Nay, mygood friends, the Maire of a French commune fears neither man nor devilin the exercise of his duty. M. Paul, lead on. ' When I said the word'devil' a spasm of alarm passed over Riou's face. He crossed himselfagain. This time I could not but smile. 'My little Riou, ' I said, 'doyou know that you are a little imbecile with your piety? There is a timefor everything. ' 'Except religion, M. Le Maire; that is never out of place, ' saidGallais. I could not believe my senses. 'Is it a conversion?' I said. 'Some ofour Carmes déchaussés must have passed this way. ' 'M. Le Maire will soon see other teachers more wonderful than the Carmesdéchaussés, ' said Lecamus. He went and took down the lantern from itsnail, and opened the little door. When it opened, I was once morepenetrated by the same icy breath; once, twice, thrice, I cannot tellhow many times this crossed me, as if some one passed. I looked roundupon the others--I gave way a step. I could not help it. In spite of me, the hair seemed to rise erect on my head. The two officers stood closetogether, and Riou, collecting his courage, made an attempt to laugh. 'M. Le Maire perceives, ' he said, his lips trembling almost too much toform the words, 'that the winds are walking about. ' 'Hush, for God'ssake!' said the other, grasping him by the arm. This recalled me to myself; and I followed Lecamus, who stood waitingfor me holding the door a little ajar. He went on strangely, like--I canuse no other words to express it--a man making his way in the face of acrowd, a thing very surprising to me. I followed him close; but themoment I emerged from the doorway something caught my breath. The samefeeling seized me also. I gasped; a sense of suffocation came upon me; Iput out my hand to lay hold upon my guide. The solid grasp I got of hisarm re-assured me a little, and he did not hesitate, but pushed his wayon. We got out clear of the gate and the shadow of the wall, keepingclose to the little watch-tower on the west side. Then he made a pause, and so did I. We stood against the tower and looked out before us. Therewas nothing there. The darkness was great, yet through the gloom of thenight I could see the division of the road from the broken ground oneither side; there was nothing there. I gasped, and drew myself up closeagainst the wall, as Lecamus had also done. There was in the air, in thenight, a sensation the most strange I have ever experienced. I have feltthe same thing indeed at other times, in face of a great crowd, whenthousands of people were moving, rustling, struggling, breathing aroundme, thronging all the vacant space, filling up every spot. This was thesensation that overwhelmed me here--a crowd: yet nothing to be seen butthe darkness, the indistinct line of the road. We could not move forthem, so close were they round us. What do I say? There wasnobody--nothing--not a form to be seen, not a face but his and mine. Iam obliged to confess that the moment was to me an awful moment. Icould not speak. My heart beat wildly as if trying to escape from mybreast--every breath I drew was with an effort. I clung to Lecamus withdeadly and helpless terror, and forced myself back upon the wall, crouching against it; I did not turn and fly, as would have beennatural. What say I? _did_ not! I _could_ not! they pressed round us so. Ah! you would think I must be mad to use such words, for there wasnobody near me--not a shadow even upon the road. Lecamus would have gone farther on; he would have pressed his way boldlyinto the midst; but my courage was not equal to this. I clutched andclung to him, dragging myself along against the wall, my whole mindintent upon getting back. I was stronger than he, and he had no power toresist me. I turned back, stumbling blindly, keeping my face to thatcrowd (there was no one), but struggling back again, tearing the skinoff my hands as I groped my way along the wall. Oh, the agony of seeingthe door closed! I have buffeted my way through a crowd before now, butI may say that I never before knew what terror was. When I fell upon thedoor, dragging Lecamus with me, it opened, thank God! I stumbled in, clutching at Riou with my disengaged hand, and fell upon the floor ofthe _octroi_, where they thought I had fainted. But this was not thecase. A man of resolution may give way to the overpowering sensations ofthe moment. His bodily faculties may fail him; but his mind will notfail. As in every really superior intelligence, my forces collected forthe emergency. While the officers ran to bring me water, to search forthe eau-de vie which they had in a cupboard, I astonished them all byrising up, pale, but with full command of myself. 'It is enough, ' Isaid, raising my hand. 'I thank you, Messieurs, but nothing more isnecessary;' and I would not take any of their restoratives. They wereimpressed, as was only natural, by the sight of my perfectself-possession: it helped them to acquire for themselves a demeanourbefitting the occasion; and I felt, though still in great physicalweakness and agitation, the consoling consciousness of having fulfilledmy functions as head of the community. 'M. Le Maire has seen a----what there is outside?' Riou cried, stammering in his excitement; and the other fixed upon me eyes whichwere hungering with eagerness--if, indeed, it is permitted to use suchwords. 'I have seen--nothing, Riou, ' I said. They looked at me with the utmost wonder. 'M. Le Maire hasseen--nothing?' said Riou. 'Ah, I see! you say so to spare us. We haveproved ourselves cowards; but if you will pardon me, M. Le Maire, you, too, re-entered precipitately--you too! There are facts which may appalthe bravest--but I implore you to tell us what you have seen. ' 'I have seen nothing, ' I said. As I spoke, my natural calm composurereturned, my heart resumed its usual tranquil beating. 'There is nothingto be seen--it is dark, and one can perceive the line of the road forbut a little way--that is all. There is nothing to be seen----' They looked at me, startled and incredulous. They did not know what tothink. How could they refuse to believe me, sitting there calmly raisingmy eyes to them, making my statement with what they felt to be an air ofperfect truth? But, then, how account for the precipitate return whichthey had already noted, the supposed faint, the pallor of my looks? Theydid not know what to think. And here, let me remark, as in my conduct throughout these remarkableevents, may be seen the benefit, the high advantage, of truth. Had notthis been the truth, I could not have borne the searching of theirlooks. But it was true. There was nothing--nothing to be seen; in onesense, this was the thing of all others which overwhelmed my mind. Butwhy insist upon these matters of detail to unenlightened men? There wasnothing, and I had seen nothing. What I said was the truth. All this time Lecamus had said nothing. As I raised myself from theground, I had vaguely perceived him hanging up the lantern where it hadbeen before; now he became distinct to me as I recovered the fullpossession of my faculties. He had seated himself upon a bench by thewall. There was no agitation about him; no sign of the thrill ofdeparting excitement, which I felt going through my veins as through thestrings of a harp. He was sitting against the wall, with his headdrooping, his eyes cast down, an air of disappointment and despondencyabout him--nothing more. I got up as soon as I felt that I could go awaywith perfect propriety; but, before I left the place, called him. He gotup when he heard his name, but he did it with reluctance. He came withme because I asked him to do so, not from any wish of his own. Verydifferent were the feelings of Riou and Gallais. They did their utmostto engage me in conversation, to consult me about a hundred trifles, toask me with the greatest deference what they ought to do in such andsuch cases, pressing close to me, trying every expedient to delay mydeparture. When we went away they stood at the door of their littleoffice close together, looking after us with looks which I found itdifficult to forget; they would not abandon their post; but their faceswere pale and contracted, their eyes wild with anxiety and distress. It was only as I walked away, hearing my own steps and those of Lecamusringing upon the pavement, that I began to realise what had happened. The effort of recovering my composure, the relief from the extremeexcitement of terror (which, dreadful as the idea is, I am obliged toconfess I had actually felt), the sudden influx of life and strength tomy brain, had pushed away for the moment the recollection of what layoutside. When I thought of it again, the blood began once more to coursein my veins. Lecamus went on by my side with his head down, the eyelidsdrooping over his eyes, not saying a word. He followed me when I calledhim: but cast a regretful look at the postern by which we had gone out, through which I had dragged him back in a panic (I confess it) unworthyof me. Only when we had left at some distance behind us that door intothe unseen, did my senses come fully back to me, and I ventured to askmyself what it meant. 'Lecamus, ' I said--I could scarcely put myquestion into words--'what do you think? what is your idea?--how do youexplain--' Even then I am glad to think I had sufficient power ofcontrol not to betray all that I felt. 'One does not try to explain, ' he said slowly; 'one longs to know--thatis all. If M. Le Maire had not been--in such haste--had he been willingto go farther--to investigate----' 'God forbid!' I said; and the impulse to quicken my steps, to get homeand put myself in safety, was almost more than I could restrain. But Iforced myself to go quietly, to measure my steps by his, which were slowand reluctant, as if he dragged himself away with difficulty from thatwhich was behind. What was it? 'Do not ask, do not ask!' Nature seemed to say in my heart. Thoughts came into my mind in such a dizzy crowd, that the multitude ofthem seemed to take away my senses. I put up my hands to my ears, inwhich they seemed to be buzzing and rustling like bees, to stop thesound. When I did so, Lecamus turned and looked at me--grave andwondering. This recalled me to a sense of my weakness. But how I gothome I can scarcely say. My mother and wife met me with anxiety. Theywere greatly disturbed about the hospital of St. Jean, in respect towhich it had been recently decided that certain changes should be made. The great ward of the hospital, which was the chief establishment forthe patients--a thing which some had complained of as an annoyancedisturbing their rest. So many, indeed, had been the complaintsreceived, that we had come to the conclusion either that the openingshould be built up, or the office suspended. Against this decision, itis needless to say, the Sisters of St. Jean were moving heaven andearth. Equally unnecessary for me to add, that having so decided in mypublic capacity, as at once the representative of popular opinion andits guide, the covert reproaches which were breathed in my presence, andeven the personal appeals made to me, had failed of any result. Irespect the Sisters of St. Jean. They are good women and excellentnurses, and the commune owes them much. Still, justice must beimpartial; and so long as I retain my position at the head of thecommunity, it is my duty to see that all have their due. My opinions asa private individual, were I allowed to return to that humble position, are entirely a different matter; but this is a thing which ladies, however excellent, are slow to allow or to understand. I will not pretend that this was to me a night of rest. In the darkness, when all is still, any anxiety which may afflict the soul is apt to gaincomplete possession and mastery, as all who have had true experience oflife will understand. The night was very dark and very still, the clocksstriking out the hours which went so slowly, and not another soundaudible. The streets of Semur are always quiet, but they were more stillthan usual that night. Now and then, in a pause of my thoughts, I couldhear the soft breathing of my Agnès in the adjoining room, which gave mea little comfort. But this was only by intervals, when I was able toescape from the grasp of the recollections that held me fast. Again Iseemed to see under my closed eyelids the faint line of the high roadwhich led from the Porte St. Lambert, the broken ground with its raggedbushes on either side, and no one--no one there--not a soul, not ashadow: yet a multitude! When I allowed myself to think of this, myheart leaped into my throat again, my blood ran in my veins like a riverin flood. I need not say that I resisted this transport of the nerveswith all my might. As the night grew slowly into morning my power ofresistance increased; I turned my back, so to speak, upon myrecollections, and said to myself, with growing firmness, that allsensations of the body must have their origin in the body. Somederangement of the system easily explainable, no doubt, if one but heldthe clue--must have produced the impression which otherwise it would beimpossible to explain. As I turned this over and over in my mind, carefully avoiding all temptations to excitement--which is the onlywise course in the case of a strong impression on the nerves--Igradually became able to believe that this was the cause. It is one ofthe penalties, I said to myself, which one has to pay for anorganisation more finely tempered than that of the crowd. This long struggle with myself made the night less tedious, though, perhaps, more terrible; and when at length I was overpowered by sleep, the short interval of unconsciousness restored me like a cordial. I wokein the early morning, feeling almost able to smile at the terrors of thenight. When one can assure oneself that the day has really begun, evenwhile it is yet dark, there is a change of sensation, an increase ofstrength and courage. One by one the dark hours went on. I heard thempealing from the Cathedral clock--four, five, six, seven--all dark, dark. I had got up and dressed before the last, but found no one elseawake when I went out--no one stirring in the house, --no one moving inthe street. The Cathedral doors were shut fast, a thing I have neverseen before since I remember. Get up early who will, Père Laserques thesacristan is always up still earlier. He is a good old man, and I haveoften heard him say God's house should be open first of all houses, incase there might be any miserable ones about who had found no shelter inthe dwellings of men. But the darkness had cheated even Père Laserques. To see those great doors closed which stood always open gave me ashiver, I cannot well tell why. Had they been open, there was aninclination in my mind to have gone in, though I cannot tell why; for Iam not in the habit of attending mass, save on Sunday to set an example. There were no shops open, not a sound about. I went out upon theramparts to the Mont St. Lambert, where the band plays on Sundays. Inall the trees there was not so much as the twitter of a bird. I couldhear the river flowing swiftly below the wall, but I could not see it, except as something dark, a ravine of gloom below, and beyond the wallsI did not venture to look. Why should I look? There was nothing, nothing, as I knew. But fancy is so uncontrollable, and one's nerves solittle to be trusted, that it was a wise precaution to refrain. Thegloom itself was oppressive enough; the air seemed to creep withapprehensions, and from time to time my heart fluttered with a sickmovement, as if it would escape from my control. But everything wasstill, still as the dead who had been so often in recent days called outof their graves by one or another. 'Enough to bring the dead out oftheir graves. ' What strange words to make use of! It was rather now asif the world had become a grave in which we, though living, were heldfast. Soon after this the dark world began to lighten faintly, and with therising of a little white mist, like a veil rolling upwards, I at lastsaw the river and the fields beyond. To see anything at all lightenedmy heart a little, and I turned homeward when this faint daylightappeared. When I got back into the street, I found that the people atlast were stirring. They had all a look of half panic, half shame upontheir faces. Many were yawning and stretching themselves. 'Good morning, M. Le Maire, ' said one and another; 'you are early astir. ' 'Not so earlyeither, ' I said; and then they added, almost every individual, with alook of shame, 'We were so late this morning; we oversleptourselves--like yesterday. The weather is extraordinary. ' This wasrepeated to me by all kinds of people. They were half frightened, andthey were ashamed. Père Laserques was sitting moaning on the Cathedralsteps. Such a thing had never happened before. He had not rung the bellfor early mass; he had not opened the Cathedral; he had not called M. LeCuré. 'I think I must be going out of my senses, ' he said; 'but then, M. Le Maire, the weather! Did anyone ever see such weather? I think theremust be some evil brewing. It is not for nothing that the seasonschange--that winter comes in the midst of summer. ' After this I went home. My mother came running to one door when Ientered, and my wife to another. '_O mon fils!_' and '_O mon ami!_' theysaid, rushing upon me. They wept, these dear women. I could not at firstprevail upon them to tell me what was the matter. At last they confessedthat they believed something to have happened to me, in punishment forthe wrong done to the Sisters at the hospital. 'Make haste, my son, toamend this error, ' my mother cried, 'lest a worse thing befall us!' Andthen I discovered that among the women, and among many of the poorpeople, it had come to be believed that the darkness was a curse upon usfor what we had done in respect to the hospital. This roused me toindignation. 'If they think I am to be driven from my duty by theirmagic, ' I cried; 'it is no better than witchcraft!' not that I believedfor a moment that it was they who had done it. My wife wept, and mymother became angry with me; but when a thing is duty, it is neitherwife nor mother who will move me out of my way. It was a miserable day. There was not light enough to seeanything--scarcely to see each other's faces; and to add to our alarm, some travellers arriving by the diligence (we are still three leaguesfrom a railway, while that miserable little place, La Rochette, beingthe _chef-lieu, _ has a terminus) informed me that the darkness onlyexisted in Semur and the neighbourhood, and that within a distance ofthree miles the sun was shining. The sun was shining! was it possible?it seemed so long since we had seen the sunshine; but this made ourcalamity more mysterious and more terrible. The people began to gatherinto little knots in the streets to talk of the strange thing that washappening In the course of the day M. Barbou came to ask whether I didnot think it would be well to appease the popular feeling by concedingwhat they wished to the Sisters of the hospital. I would not hear of it. 'Shall we own that we are in the wrong? I do not think we are in thewrong, ' I said, and I would not yield. 'Do you think the good Sistershave it in their power to darken the sky with their incantations?' M. L'Adjoint shook his head. He went away with a troubled countenance; butthen he was not like myself, a man of natural firmness. All the effortsthat were employed to influence him were also employed with me; but toyield to the women was not in my thoughts. We are now approaching, however, the first important incident in thisnarrative. The darkness increased as the afternoon came on; and itbecame a kind of thick twilight, no lighter than many a night. It wasbetween five and six o'clock, just the time when our streets are themost crowded, when, sitting at my window, from which I kept a watchupon the Grande Rue, not knowing what might happen--I saw that somefresh incident had taken place. Very dimly through the darkness Iperceived a crowd, which increased every moment, in front of theCathedral. After watching it for a few minutes, I got my hat and wentout. The people whom I saw--so many that they covered the whole middleof the _Place_, reaching almost to the pavement on the other side--hadtheir heads all turned towards the Cathedral. 'What are you gazing at, my friend?' I said to one by whom I stood. He looked up at me with aface which looked ghastly in the gloom. 'Look, M. Le Maire!' he said;'cannot you see it on the great door?' 'I see nothing, ' said I; but as I uttered these words I did indeed seesomething which was very startling. Looking towards the great door ofthe Cathedral, as they all were doing, it suddenly seemed to me that Isaw an illuminated placard attached to it, headed with the word'_Sommation_' in gigantic letters. '_Tiens!_' I cried; but when Ilooked again there was nothing. 'What is this? it is some witchcraft!' Isaid, in spite of myself. 'Do you see anything, Jean Pierre?' 'M. Le Maire, ' he said, 'one moment one sees something--the next, onesees nothing. Look! it comes again. ' I have always considered myself aman of courage, but when I saw this extraordinary appearance the panicwhich had seized upon me the former night returned, though in anotherform. Fly I could not, but I will not deny that my knees smote together. I stood for some minutes without being able to articulate a word--which, indeed, seemed the case with most of those before me. Never have I seena more quiet crowd. They were all gazing, as if it was life or deaththat was set before them--while I, too, gazed with a shiver going overme. It was as I have seen an illumination of lamps in a stormy night;one moment the whole seems black as the wind sweeps over it, the nextit springs into life again; and thus you go on, by turns losing anddiscovering the device formed by the lights. Thus from moment to momentthere appeared before us, in letters that seemed to blaze and flicker, something that looked like a great official placard. '_Sommation!_'--this was how it was headed. I read a few words at atime, as it came and went; and who can describe the chill that ranthrough my veins as I made it out? It was a summons to the people ofSemur by name--myself at the head as Maire (and I heard afterwards thatevery man who saw it saw his own name, though the whole _façade_ of theCathedral would not have held a full list of all the people ofSemur)--to yield their places, which they had not filled aright, tothose who knew the meaning of life, being dead. NOUS AUTRES MORTS--thesewere the words which blazed out oftenest of all, so that every one sawthem. And 'Go!' this terrible placard said--'Go! leave this place to uswho know the true signification of life. ' These words I remember, butnot the rest; and even at this moment it struck me that there was noexplanation, nothing but this _vraie signification de la vie. _ I feltlike one in a dream: the light coming and going before me; one word, then another, appearing--sometimes a phrase like that I have quoted, blazing out, then dropping into darkness. For the moment I was struckdumb; but then it came back to my mind that I had an example to give, and that for me, eminently a man of my century, to yield credence to amiracle was something not to be thought of. Also I knew the necessity ofdoing something to break the impression of awe and terror on the mind ofthe people. 'This is a trick, ' I cried loudly, that all might hear. 'Letsome one go and fetch M. De Clairon from the Musée. He will tell us howit has been done. ' This, boldly uttered, broke the spell. A number ofpale faces gathered round me. 'Here is M. Le Maire--he will clear itup, ' they cried, making room for me that I might approach nearer. 'M. Le Maire is a man of courage--he has judgment. Listen to M. Le Maire. 'It was a relief to everybody that I had spoken. And soon I found myselfby the side of M. Le Curé, who was standing among the rest, sayingnothing, and with the air of one as much bewildered as any of us. Hegave me one quick look from under his eyebrows to see who it was thatapproached him, as was his way, and made room for me, but said nothing. I was in too much emotion myself to keep silence--indeed, I was in thatcondition of wonder, alarm, and nervous excitement, that I had to speakor die; and there seemed an escape from something too terrible for fleshand blood to contemplate in the idea that there was trickery here. 'M. Le Curé, ' I said, 'this is a strange ornament that you have placed onthe front of your church. You are standing here to enjoy the effect. Nowthat you have seen how successful it has been, will not you tell me inconfidence how it is done?' I am conscious that there was a sneer in my voice, but I was too muchexcited to think of politeness. He gave me another of his rapid, keenlooks. 'M. Le Maire, ' he said, 'you are injurious to a man who is as littlefond of tricks as yourself. ' His tone, his glance, gave me a certain sense of shame, but I could notstop myself. 'One knows, ' I said, 'that there are many things which anecclesiastic may do without harm, which are not permitted to an ordinarylayman--one who is an honest man, and no more. ' M. Le Curé made no reply. He gave me another of his quick glances, withan impatient turn of his head. Why should I have suspected him? for noharm was known of him. He was the Curé, that was all; and perhaps we menof the world have our prejudices too. Afterwards, however, as we waitedfor M. De Clairon--for the crisis was too exciting for personalresentment--M. Le Curé himself let drop something which made it apparentthat it was the ladies of the hospital upon whom his suspicions fell. 'It is never well to offend women, M. Le Maire, ' he said. 'Women do notdiscriminate the lawful from the unlawful: so long as they produce aneffect, it does not matter to them. ' This gave me a strange impression, for it seemed to me that M. Le Curé was abandoning his own side. However, all other sentiments were, as may be imagined, but as shadowscompared with the overwhelming power that held all our eyes and ourthoughts to the wonder before us. Every moment seemed an hour till M. DeClairon appeared. He was pushed forward through the crowd as by magic, all making room for him; and many of us thought that when science thuscame forward capable of finding out everything, the miracle woulddisappear. But instead of this it seemed to glow brighter than ever. That great word '_Sommation_' blazed out, so that we saw his figurewaver against the light as if giving way before the flames thatscorched him. He was so near that his outline was marked out darkagainst the glare they gave. It was as though his close approachrekindled every light. Then, with a flicker and trembling, word by wordand letter by letter went slowly out before our eyes. M. De Clairon came down very pale, but with a sort of smile on his face. 'No, M. Le Maire, ' he said, 'I cannot see how it is done. It is clever. I will examine the door further, and try the panels. Yes, I have leftsome one to watch that nothing is touched in the meantime, with thepermission of M. Le Curé--' 'You have my full permission, ' M. Le Curé said; and M. De Claironlaughed, though he was still very pale. 'You saw my name there, ' hesaid. 'I am amused--I who am not one of your worthy citizens, M. LeMaire. What can Messieurs les Morts of Semur want with a poor man ofscience like me? But you shall have my report before the evening isout. ' With this I had to be content. The darkness which succeeded to thatstrange light seemed more terrible than ever. We all stumbled as weturned to go away, dazzled by it, and stricken dumb, though some keptsaying that it was a trick, and some murmured exclamations with voicesfull of terror. The sound of the crowd breaking up was like a regimentmarching--all the world had been there. I was thankful, however, thatneither my mother nor my wife had seen anything; and though they wereanxious to know why I was so serious, I succeeded fortunately in keepingthe secret from them. M. De Clairon did not appear till late, and then he confessed to me hecould make nothing of it. 'If it is a trick (as of course it must be), it has been most cleverly done, ' he said; and admitted that he wasbaffled altogether. For my part, I was not surprised. Had it been theSisters of the hospital, as M. Le Curé thought, would they have let theopportunity pass of preaching a sermon to us, and recommending theirdoctrines? Not so; here there were no doctrines, nothing but thatpregnant phrase, _la vraie signification de la vie_. This made a moredeep impression upon me than anything else. The Holy Mother herself(whom I wish to speak of with profound respect), and the saints, and theforgiveness of sins, would have all been there had it been the Sisters, or even M. Le Curé. This, though I had myself suggested an imposture, made it very unlikely to my quiet thoughts. But if not an imposture, what could it be supposed to be? EXPULSION OF THE INHABITANTS. I will not attempt to give any detailed account of the state of the townduring this evening. For myself I was utterly worn out, and went to restas soon as M. De Clairon left me, having satisfied, as well as I could, the questions of the women. Even in the intensest excitement wearynature will claim her dues. I slept. I can even remember the gratefulsense of being able to put all anxieties and perplexities aside for themoment, as I went to sleep. I felt the drowsiness gain upon me, and Iwas glad. To forget was of itself a happiness. I woke up, however, intensely awake, and in perfect possession of all my faculties, while itwas yet dark; and at once got up and began to dress. The moment ofhesitation which generally follows waking--the little interval ofthought in which one turns over perhaps that which is past, perhaps thatwhich is to come--found no place within me. I got up without a moment'spause, like one who has been called to go on a journey; nor did itsurprise me at all to see my wife moving about, taking a cloak from herwardrobe, and putting up linen in a bag. She was already fully dressed;but she asked no questions of me any more than I did of her. We were inhaste, though we said nothing. When I had dressed, I looked round me tosee if I had forgotten anything, as one does when one leaves a place. Isaw my watch suspended to its usual hook, and my pocketbook, which I hadtaken from my pocket on the previous night. I took up also the lightovercoat which I had worn when I made my rounds through the city on thefirst night of the darkness. 'Now, ' I said, 'Agnès, I am ready. ' I didnot speak to her of where we were going, nor she to me. Little Jean andmy mother met us at the door. Nor did _she_ say anything, contrary toher custom; and the child was quite quiet. We went downstairs togetherwithout saying a word. The servants, who were all astir, followed us. Icannot give any description of the feelings that were in my mind. I hadnot any feelings. I was only hurried out, hastened by something which Icould not define--a sense that I must go; and perhaps I was too muchastonished to do anything but yield. It seemed, however, to be no forceor fear that was moving me, but a desire of my own; though I could nottell how it was, or why I should be so anxious to get away. All theservants, trooping after me, had the same look in their faces; they wereanxious to be gone--it seemed their business to go--there was noquestion, no consultation. And when we came out into the street, weencountered a stream of processions similar to our own. The childrenwent quite steadily by the side of their parents. Little Jean, forexample, on an ordinary occasion would have broken away--would have runto his comrades of the Bois-Sombre family, and they to him. But no; thelittle ones, like ourselves, walked along quite gravely. They asked noquestions, neither did we ask any questions of each other, as, 'Whereare you going?' or, 'What is the meaning of a so-early promenade?'Nothing of the kind; my mother took my arm, and my wife, leading littleJean by the hand, came to the other side. The servants followed. Thestreet was quite full of people; but there was no noise except the soundof their footsteps. All of us turned the same way--turned towards thegates--and though I was not conscious of any feeling except the wish togo on, there were one or two things which took a place in my memory. Thefirst was, that my wife suddenly turned round as we were coming out ofthe _porte-cochère_, her face lighting up. I need not say to any one whoknows Madame Dupin de la Clairière, that she is a beautiful woman. Without any partiality on my part, it would be impossible for me toignore this fact: for it is perfectly well known and acknowledged byall. She was pale this morning--a little paler than usual; and her blueeyes enlarged, with a serious look, which they always retain more orless. But suddenly, as we went out of the door, her face lighted up, hereyes were suffused with tears--with light--how can I tell what itwas?--they became like the eyes of angels. A little cry came from herparted lips--she lingered a moment, stooping down as if talking to someone less tall than herself, then came after us, with that light still inher face. At the moment I was too much occupied to enquire what it was;but I noted it, even in the gravity of the occasion. The next thing Iobserved was M. Le Curé, who, as I have already indicated, is a man ofgreat composure of manner and presence of mind, coming out of the doorof the Presbytery. There was a strange look on his face of astonishmentand reluctance. He walked very slowly, not as we did, but with a visibledesire to turn back, folding his arms across his breast, and holdinghimself as if against the wind, resisting some gale which blew behindhim, and forced him on. We felt no gale; but there seemed to be astrange wind blowing along the side of the street on which M. Le Curéwas. And there was an air of concealed surprise in his face--greatastonishment, but a determination not to let any one see that he wasastonished, or that the situation was strange to him. And I cannot tellhow it was, but I, too, though pre-occupied, was surprised to perceivethat M. Le Cure was going with the rest of us, though I could not havetold why. Behind M. Le Curé there was another whom I remarked. This was JacquesRichard, he of whom I have already spoken. He was like a figure I haveseen somewhere in sculpture. No one was near him, nobody touching him, and yet it was only necessary to look at the man to perceive that hewas being forced along against his will. Every limb was in resistance;his feet were planted widely yet firmly upon the pavement; one of hisarms was stretched out as if to lay hold on anything that should comewithin reach. M. Le Curé resisted passively; but Jacques resisted withpassion, laying his back to the wind, and struggling not to be carriedaway. Notwithstanding his resistance, however, this rough figure wasdriven along slowly, struggling at every step. He did not make onemovement that was not against his will, but still he was driven on. Onour side of the street all went, like ourselves, calmly. My motheruttered now and then a low moan, but said nothing. She clung to my arm, and walked on, hurrying a little, sometimes going quicker than Iintended to go. As for my wife, she accompanied us with her light step, which scarcely seemed to touch the ground, little Jean pattering by herside. Our neighbours were all round us. We streamed down, as in a longprocession, to the Porte St. Lambert. It was only when we got there thatthe strange character of the step we were all taking suddenly occurredto me. It was still a kind of grey twilight, not yet day. The bells ofthe Cathedral had begun to toll, which was very startling--not ringingin their cheerful way, but tolling as if for a funeral; and no othersound was audible but the noise of footsteps, like an army making asilent march into an enemy's country. We had reached the gate when asudden wondering came over me. Why were we all going out of our housesin the wintry dusk to which our July days had turned? I stopped, andturning round, was about to say something to the others, when I becamesuddenly aware that here I was not my own master. My tongue clave to theroot of my mouth; I could not say a word. Then I myself was turnedround, and softly, firmly, irresistibly pushed out of the gate. Mymother, who clung to me, added a little, no doubt, to the force againstme, whatever it was, for she was frightened, and opposed herself to anyendeavour on my part to regain freedom of movement; but all that herfeeble force could do against mine must have been little. Several othermen around me seemed to be moved as I was. M. Barbou, for one, made astill more decided effort to turn back, for, being a bachelor, he had noone to restrain him. Him I saw turned round as you would turn a_roulette_. He was thrown against my wife in his tempestuous course, andbut that she was so light and elastic in her tread, gliding out straightand softly like one of the saints, I think he must have thrown her down. And at that moment, silent as we all were, his '_Pardon, Madame, millepardons, Madame_, ' and his tone of horror at his own indiscretion, seemed to come to me like a voice out of another life. Partially rousedbefore by the sudden impulse of resistance I have described, I was yetmore roused now. I turned round, disengaging myself from my mother. 'Where are we going? why are we thus cast forth? My friends, help!' Icried. I looked round upon the others, who, as I have said, had alsoawakened to a possibility of resistance. M. De Bois-Sombre, without aword, came and placed himself by my side; others started from the crowd. We turned to resist this mysterious impulse which had sent us forth. Thecrowd surged round us in the uncertain light. Just then there was a dull soft sound, once, twice, thrice repeated. Werushed forward, but too late. The gates were closed upon us. The twofolds of the great Porte St. Lambert, and the little postern forfoot-passengers, all at once, not hurriedly, as from any fear of us, butslowly, softly, rolled on their hinges and shut--in our faces. I rushedforward with all my force and flung myself upon the gate. To what use?it was so closed as no mortal could open it. They told me after, for Iwas not aware at the moment, that I burst forth with cries andexclamations, bidding them 'Open, open in the name of God!' I was notaware of what I said, but it seemed to me that I heard a voice of whichnobody said anything to me, so that it would seem to have been unheardby the others, saying with a faint sound as of a trumpet, 'Closed--inthe name of God. ' It might be only an echo, faintly brought back to me, of the words I had myself said. There was another change, however, of which no one could have any doubt. When I turned round from these closed doors, though the moment beforethe darkness was such that we could not see the gates closing, I foundthe sun shining gloriously round us, and all my fellow-citizens turningwith one impulse, with a sudden cry of joy, to hail the full day. _Le grand jour!_ Never in my life did I feel the full happiness of it, the full sense of the words before. The sun burst out into shining, thebirds into singing. The sky stretched over us--deep and unfathomable andblue, --the grass grew under our feet, a soft air of morning blew uponus; waving the curls of the children, the veils of the women, whosefaces were lit up by the beautiful day. After three days of darknesswhat a resurrection! It seemed to make up to us for the misery of beingthus expelled from our homes. It was early, and all the freshness of themorning was upon the road and the fields, where the sun had just driedthe dew. The river ran softly, reflecting the blue sky. How black it hadbeen, deep and dark as a stream of ink, when I had looked down upon itfrom the Mont St. Lambert! and now it ran as clear and free as the voiceof a little child. We all shared this moment of joy--for to us of theSouth the sunshine is as the breath of life, and to be deprived of ithad been terrible. But when that first pleasure was over, the evidenceof our strange position forced itself upon us with overpowering realityand force, made stronger by the very light. In the dimness it had notseemed so certain; now, gazing at each other in the clear light of thenatural morning, we saw what had happened to us. No more delusion waspossible. We could not flatter ourselves now that it was a trick or adeception. M. Le Clairon stood there like the rest of us, staring at theclosed gates which science could not open. And there stood M. Le Curé, which was more remarkable still. The Church herself had not been able todo anything. We stood, a crowd of houseless exiles, looking at eachother, our children clinging to us, our hearts failing us, expelled fromour homes. As we looked in each other's faces we saw our own trouble. Many of the women sat down and wept; some upon the stones in the road, some on the grass. The children took fright from them, and began to crytoo. What was to become of us? I looked round upon this crowd withdespair in my heart. It was I to whom every one would look--for lodging, for direction--everything that human creatures want. It was my businessto forget myself, though I also had been driven from my home and mycity. Happily there was one thing I had left. In the pocket of myovercoat was my scarf of office. I stepped aside behind a tree, and tookit out, and tied it upon me. That was something. There was thus arepresentative of order and law in the midst of the exiles, whatevermight happen. This action, which a great number of the crowd saw, restored confidence. Many of the poor people gathered round me, andplaced themselves near me, especially those women who had no naturalsupport. When M. Le Curé saw this, it seemed to make a great impressionupon him. He changed colour, he who was usually so calm. Hitherto he hadappeared bewildered, amazed to find himself as others. This, I must add, though you may perhaps think it superstitious, surprised me very muchtoo. But now he regained his self-possession. He stepped upon a piece ofwood that lay in front of the gate. 'My children'--he said. But justthen the Cathedral bells, which had gone on tolling, suddenly burst intoa wild peal. I do not know what it sounded like. It was a clamour ofnotes all run together, tone upon tone, without time or measure, asthough a multitude had seized upon the bells and pulled all the ropes atonce. If it was joy, what strange and terrible joy! It froze the veryblood in our veins. M. Le Curé became quite pale. He stepped downhurriedly from the piece of wood. We all made a hurried movement fartheroff from the gate. It was now that I perceived the necessity of doing something, of gettingthis crowd disposed of, especially the women and the children. I am notashamed to own that I trembled like the others; and nothing less thanthe consciousness that all eyes were upon me, and that my scarf ofoffice marked me out among all who stood around, could have kept me frommoving with precipitation as they did. I was enabled, however, toretire at a deliberate pace, and being thus slightly detached from thecrowd, I took advantage of the opportunity to address them. Above allthings, it was my duty to prevent a tumult in these unprecedentedcircumstances. 'My friends, ' I said, 'the event which has occurred isbeyond explanation for the moment. The very nature of it is mysterious;the circumstances are such as require the closest investigation. Buttake courage. I pledge myself not to leave this place till the gates areopen, and you can return to your homes; in the meantime, however, thewomen and the children cannot remain here. Let those who have friends inthe villages near, go and ask for shelter; and let all who will, go tomy house of La Clairière. My mother, my wife! recall to yourselves theposition you occupy, and show an example. Lead our neighbours, I entreatyou, to La Clairière. ' My mother is advanced in years and no longer strong, but she has a greatheart. 'I will go, ' she said. 'God bless thee, my son! There will noharm happen; for if this be true which we are told, thy father is inSemur. ' There then occurred one of those incidents for which calculation neverwill prepare us. My mother's words seemed, as it were to open theflood-gates; my wife came up to me with the light in her face which Ihad seen when we left our own door. 'It was our little Marie--ourangel, ' she said. And then there arose a great cry and clamour ofothers, both men and women pressing round. 'I saw my mother, ' said one, 'who is dead twenty years come the St. Jean. ' 'And I my little René, 'said another. 'And I my Camille, who was killed in Africa. ' And lo, whatdid they do, but rush towards the gate in a crowd--that gate from whichthey had but this moment fled in terror--beating upon it, and cryingout, 'Open to us, open to us, our most dear! Do you think we haveforgotten you? We have never forgotten you!' What could we do withthem, weeping thus, smiling, holding out their arms to--we knew notwhat? Even my Agnès was beyond my reach. Marie was our little girl whowas dead. Those who were thus transported by a knowledge beyond ourswere the weakest among us; most of them were women, the men old orfeeble, and some children. I can recollect that I looked for PaulLecamus among them, with wonder not to see him there. But though theywere weak, they were beyond our strength to guide. What could we do withthem? How could we force them away while they held to the fancy thatthose they loved were there? As it happens in times of emotion, it wasthose who were most impassioned who took the first place. We were at ourwits' end. But while we stood waiting, not knowing what to do, another soundsuddenly came from the walls, which made them all silent in a moment. The most of us ran to this point and that (some taking flightaltogether; but with the greater part anxious curiosity and anxiety hadfor the moment extinguished fear), in a wild eagerness to see who orwhat it was. But there was nothing to be seen, though the sound camefrom the wall close to the Mont St. Lambert, which I have alreadydescribed. It was to me like the sound of a trumpet, and so I heardothers say; and along with the trumpet were sounds as of words, though Icould not make them out. But those others seemed to understand--theygrew calmer--they ceased to weep. They raised their faces, all with thatlight upon them--that light I had seen in my Agnès. Some of them fellupon their knees. Imagine to yourself what a sight it was, all of usstanding round, pale, stupefied, without a word to say! Then the womensuddenly burst forth into replies--_'Oui, ma chérie! Oui, mon ange_!'they cried. And while we looked they rose up; they came back, callingthe children around them. My Agnès took that place which I had biddenher take. She had not hearkened to me, to leave me--but she hearkenednow; and though I had bidden her to do this, yet to see her do itbewildered me, made my heart stand still. '_Mon ami_, ' she said, 'I mustleave thee; it is commanded: they will not have the children suffer. 'What could we do? We stood pale and looked on, while all the littleones, all the feeble, were gathered in a little army. My mother stoodlike me--to her nothing had been revealed. She was very pale, and therewas a quiver of pain in her lips. She was the one who had been ready todo my bidding: but there was a rebellion in her heart now. When theprocession was formed (for it was my care to see that everything wasdone in order), she followed, but among the last. Thus they went away, many of them weeping, looking back, waving their hands to us. My Agnèscovered her face, she could not look at me; but she obeyed. They wentsome to this side, some to that, leaving us gazing. For a long time wedid nothing but watch them, going along the roads. What had their angelssaid to them? Nay, but God knows. I heard the sound; it was like thesound of the silver trumpets that travellers talk of; it was like musicfrom heaven. I turned to M. Le Curé, who was standing by. 'What is it?'I cried, 'you are their director--you are an ecclesiastic--you know whatbelongs to the unseen. What is this that has been said to them?' I havealways thought well of M. Le Curé. There were tears running down hischeeks. 'I know not, ' he said. 'I am a miserable like the rest. What they knowis between God and them. Me! I have been of the world, like the rest. ' This is how we were left alone--the men of the city--to take what meanswere best to get back to our homes. There were several left among us whohad shared the enlightenment of the women, but these were not persons ofimportance who could put themselves at the head of affairs. And therewere women who remained with us, but these not of the best. To see ourwives go was very strange to us; it was the thing we wished most to see, the women and children in safety; yet it was a strange sensation to seethem go. For me, who had the charge of all on my hands, the relief wasbeyond description--yet was it strange; I cannot describe it. Then Icalled upon M. Barbou, who was trembling like a leaf, and gathered thechief of the citizens about me, including M. Le Curé, that we shouldconsult together what we should do. I know no words that can describe our state in the strange circumstanceswe were now placed in. The women and the children were safe: that wasmuch. But we--we were like an army suddenly formed, but without arms, without any knowledge of how to fight, without being able to see ourenemy. We Frenchmen have not been without knowledge of such perils. Wehave seen the invader enter our doors; we have been obliged to spreadour table for him, and give him of our best. But to be put forth byforces no man could resist--to be left outside, with the doors of ourown houses closed upon us--to be confronted by nothing--by a mist, asilence, a darkness, --this was enough to paralyse the heart of any man. And it did so, more or less, according to the nature of those who wereexposed to the trial. Some altogether failed us, and fled, carrying thenews into the country, where most people laughed at there, as weunderstood afterwards. Some could do nothing but sit and gaze, huddledtogether in crowds, at the cloud over Semur, from which they expected tosee fire burst and consume the city altogether. And a few, I grieve tosay, took possession of the little _cabaret_, which stands at about halfa kilometre from the St. Lambert gate, and established themselves there, in hideous riot, which was the worst thing of all for serious men tobehold. Those upon whom I could rely I formed into patrols to go roundthe city, that no opening of a gate, or movement of those who werewithin, should take place without our knowledge. Such an emergency showswhat men are. M. Barbou, though in ordinary times he discharges hisduties as _adjoint_ satisfactorily enough (though, it need not be added, a good Maire who is acquainted with his duties, makes the office of_adjoint_ of but little importance), was now found entirely useless. Hecould not forget how he had been spun round and tossed forth from thecity gates. When I proposed to put him at the head of a patrol, he hadan attack of the nerves. Before nightfall he deserted me altogether, going off to his country-house, and taking a number of his neighbourswith him. 'How can we tell when we may be permitted to return to thetown?' he said, with his teeth chattering. 'M. Le Maire, I adjure you toput yourself in a place of safety. ' 'Sir, ' I said to him, sternly, 'for one who deserts his post there is noplace of safety. ' But I do not think he was capable of understanding me. Fortunately, Ifound in M. Le Curé a much more trustworthy coadjutor. He wasindefatigable; he had the habit of sitting up to all hours, of beingcalled at all hours, in which our _bourgeoisie_, I cannot butacknowledge, is wanting. The expression I have before described ofastonishment--but of astonishment which he wished to conceal--never lefthis face. He did not understand how such a thing could have beenpermitted to happen while he had no share in it; and, indeed, I will notdeny that this was a matter of great wonder to myself too. The arrangements I have described gave us occupation; and this had ahappy effect upon us in distracting our minds from what had happened;for I think that if we had sat still and gazed at the dark city weshould soon have gone mad, as some did. In our ceaseless patrols andattempts to find a way of entrance, we distracted ourselves from theenquiry, Who would dare to go in if the entrance were found? In themeantime not a gate was opened, not a figure was visible. We sawnothing, no more than if Semur had been a picture painted upon a canvas. Strange sights indeed met our eyes--sights which made even the bravestquail. The strangest of them was the boats that would go down and up theriver, shooting forth from under the fortified bridge, which is one ofthe chief features of our town, sometimes with sails perfectly wellmanaged, sometimes impelled by oars, but with no one visible in them--noone conducting them. To see one of these boats impelled up the stream, with no rower visible, was a wonderful sight. M. De Clairon, who was bymy side, murmured something about a magnetic current; but when I askedhim sternly by what set in motion, his voice died away in his moustache. M. Le Curé said very little: one saw his lips move as he watched with usthe passage of those boats. He smiled when it was proposed by some oneto fire upon them. He read his Hours as he went round at the head ofhis patrol. My fellow townsmen and I conceived a great respect for him;and he inspired pity in me also. He had been the teacher of the Unseenamong us, till the moment when the Unseen was thus, as it were, broughtwithin our reach; but with the revelation he had nothing to do; and itfilled him with pain and wonder. It made him silent; he said littleabout his religion, but signed himself, and his lips moved. He thought(I imagine) that he had displeased Those who are over all. When night came the bravest of us were afraid. I speak for myself. Itwas bright moonlight where we were, and Semur lay like a blot betweenthe earth and the sky, all dark: even the Cathedral towers were lost init; nothing visible but the line of the ramparts, whitened outside bythe moon. One knows what black and strange shadows are cast by themoonlight; and it seemed to all of us that we did not know what might belurking behind every tree. The shadows of the branches looked liketerrible faces. I sent all my people out on the patrols, though theywere dropping with fatigue. Rather that than to be mad with terror. Formyself, I took up my post as near the bank of the river as we couldapproach; for there was a limit beyond which we might not pass. I madethe experiment often; and it seemed to me, and to all that attempted it, that we did reach the very edge of the stream; but the next momentperceived that we were at a certain distance, say twenty metres orthereabout. I placed myself there very often, wrapping a cloak about meto preserve me from the dew. (I may say that food had been sent us, andwine from La Clairière and many other houses in the neighbourhood, wherethe women had gone for this among other reasons, that we might benourished by them. ) And I must here relate a personal incident, though Ihave endeavoured not to be egotistical. While I sat watching, Idistinctly saw a boat, a boat which belonged to myself, lying on thevery edge of the shadow. The prow, indeed, touched the moonlight whereit was cut clean across by the darkness; and this was how I discoveredthat it was the Marie, a pretty pleasure-boat which had been made for mywife. The sight of it made my heart beat; for what could it mean butthat some one who was dear to me, some one in whom I took an interest, was there? I sprang up from where I sat to make another effort to getnearer; but my feet were as lead, and would not move; and there came asinging in my ears, and my blood coursed through my veins as in a fever. Ah! was it possible? I, who am a man, who have resolution, who havecourage, who can lead the people, _I was afraid!_ I sat down again andwept like a child. Perhaps it was my little Marie that was in the boat. God, He knows if I loved thee, my little angel! but I was afraid. O howmean is man! though we are so proud. They came near to me who were myown, and it was borne in upon my spirit that my good father was withthe child; but because they had died I was afraid. I covered my facewith my hands. Then it seemed to me that I heard a long quiver of asigh; a long, long breath, such as sometimes relieves a sorrow that isbeyond words. Trembling, I uncovered my eyes. There was nothing on theedge of the moonlight; all was dark, and all was still, the whiteradiance making a clear line across the river, but nothing more. If my Agnès had been with me she would have seen our child, she wouldhave heard that voice! The great cold drops of moisture were on myforehead. My limbs trembled, my heart fluttered in my bosom. I couldneither listen nor yet speak. And those who would have spoken to me, those who loved me, sighing, went away. It is not possible that suchwretchedness should be credible to noble minds; and if it had not beenfor pride and for shame, I should have fled away straight to LaClairière, to Put myself under shelter, to have some one near me whowas less a coward than I. I, upon whom all the others relied, the Maireof the Commune! I make my confession. I was of no more force than this. A voice behind me made me spring to my feet--the leap of a mouse wouldhave driven me wild. I was altogether demoralised. 'Monsieur le Maire, it is but I, ' said some one quite humble and frightened. '_Tiens!_--it is thou, Jacques!' I said. I could have embraced him, though it is well known how little I approve of him. But he was living, he was a man like myself. I put out my hand, and felt him warm andbreathing, and I shall never forget the ease that came to my heart. Itsbeating calmed. I was restored to myself. 'M. Le Maire, ' he said, 'I wish to ask you something. Is it true allthat is said about these people, I would say, these Messieurs? I do notwish to speak with disrespect, M. Le Maire. ' 'What is it, Jacques, that is said?' I had called him 'thou' not out ofcontempt, but because, for the moment, he seemed to me as a brother, asone of my friends. 'M. Le Maire, is it indeed _les morts_ that are in Semur?' He trembled, and so did I. 'Jacques, ' I said, 'you know all that Iknow. ' 'Yes, M. Le Maire, it is so, sure enough. I do not doubt it. If it werethe Prussians, a man could fight. But _ces Messieurs là!_ What I want toknow is: is it because of what you did to those little Sisters, thosegood little ladies of St. Jean?' 'What I did? You were yourself one of the complainants. You were ofthose who said, when a man is ill, when he is suffering, they tormenthim with their mass; it is quiet he wants, not their mass. These werethy words, _vaurien_. And now you say it was I!' 'True, M. Le Maire, ' said Jacques; 'but look you, when a man is better, when he has just got well, when he feels he is safe, then you should nottake what he says for gospel. It would be strange if one had a newillness just when one is getting well of the old; and one feels now isthe time to enjoy one's self, to kick up one's heels a little, while atleast there is not likely to be much of a watch kept _up there_--thesaints forgive me, ' cried Jacques, trembling and crossing himself, 'if Ispeak with levity at such a moment! And the little ladies were verykind. It was wrong to close their chapel, M. Le Maire. From that comesall our trouble. ' 'You good-for-nothing!' I cried, 'it is you and such as you that are thebeginning of our trouble. You thought there was no watch kept _upthere_; you thought God would not take the trouble to punish you; youwent about the streets of Semur tossing a _grosse pièce_ of a hundredsous, and calling out, "There is no God--this is my god; _l'argent, c'est le bon Dieu_. "' 'M. Le Maire, M. Le Maire, be silent, I implore you! It is enough tobring down a judgment upon us. ' 'It has brought down a judgment upon us. Go thou and try what thy_grosse pièce_ will do for thee now--worship thy god. Go, I tell you, and get help from your money. ' 'I have no money, M. Le Maire, and what could money do here? We would domuch better to promise a large candle for the next festival, and thatthe ladies of St. Jean--' 'Get away with thee to the end of the world, thou and thy ladies of St. Jean!' I cried; which was wrong, I do not deny it, for they are goodwomen, not like this good-for-nothing fellow. And to think that thisman, whom I despise, was more pleasant to me than the dear souls wholoved me! Shame came upon me at the thought. I too, then, was like theothers, fearing the Unseen--capable of understanding only that which waspalpable. When Jacques slunk away, which he did for a few steps, notlosing sight of me, I turned my face towards the river and the town. Themoonlight fell upon the water, white as silver where that line ofdarkness lay, shining, as if it tried, and tried in vain, to penetrateSemur; and between that and the blue sky overhead lay the city out ofwhich we had been driven forth--the city of the dead. 'O God, ' I cried, 'whom I know not, am not I to Thee as my little Jean is to me, a childand less than a child? Do not abandon me in this darkness. Would Iabandon him were he ever so disobedient? And God, if thou art God, Thouart a better father than I. ' When I had said this, my heart was a littlerelieved. It seemed to me that I had spoken to some one who knew all ofus, whether we were dead or whether we were living. That is a wonderfulthing to think of, when it appears to one not as a thing to believe, butas something that is real. It gave me courage. I got up and went to meetthe patrol which was coming in, and found that great good-for-nothingJacques running close after me, holding my cloak. 'Do not send me away, M. Le Maire, ' he said, 'I dare not stay by myself with _them_ so near. 'Instead of his money, in which he had trusted, it was I who had becomehis god now. OUTSIDE THE WALLS. There are few who have not heard something of the sufferings of a siege. Whether within or without, it is the most terrible of all theexperiences of war. I am old enough to recollect the trenches beforeSebastopol, and all that my countrymen and the English endured there. Sometimes I endeavoured to think of this to distract me from what weourselves endured. But how different was it! We had neither shelter norsupport. We had no weapons, nor any against whom to wield them. We werecast out of our homes in the midst of our lives, in the midst of ouroccupations, and left there helpless, to gaze at each other, to blindour eyes trying to penetrate the darkness before us. Could we have doneanything, the oppression might have been less terrible--but what wasthere that we could do? Fortunately (though I do not deny that I felteach desertion) our band grew less and less every day. Hour by hour someone stole away--first one, then another, dispersing themselves among thevillages near, in which many had friends. The accounts which these mengave were, I afterwards learnt, of the most vague description. Sometalked of wonders they had seen, and were laughed at--and some spreadreports of internal division among us. Not till long after did I knowall the reports that went abroad. It was said that there had beenfighting in Semur, and that we were divided into two factions, one ofwhich had gained the mastery, and driven the other out. This was thestory current in La Rochette, where they are always glad to hearanything to the discredit of the people of Semur; but no credence couldhave been given to it by those in authority, otherwise M. Le Préfet, however indifferent to our interests, must necessarily have taken somesteps for our relief. Our entire separation from the world was indeedone of the strangest details of this terrible period. Generally thediligence, though conveying on the whole few passengers, returned withtwo or three, at least, visitors or commercial persons, daily-and thelatter class frequently arrived in carriages of their own; but duringthis period no stranger came to see our miserable plight. We madeshelter for ourselves under the branches of the few trees that grew inthe uncultivated ground on either side of the road--and a hastyerection, half tent half shed, was put up for a place to assemble in, orfor those who were unable to bear the heat of the day or the occasionalchills of the night. But the most of us were too restless to seekrepose, and could not bear to be out of sight of the city. At any momentit seemed to us the gates might open, or some loophole be visible bywhich we might throw ourselves upon the darkness and vanquish it. Thiswas what we said to ourselves, forgetting how we shook and trembledwhenever any contact had been possible with those who were within. Butone thing was certain, that though we feared, we could not turn our eyesfrom the place. We slept leaning against a tree, or with our heads onour hands, and our faces toward Semur. We took no count of day or night, but ate the morsel the women brought to us, and slept thus, notsleeping, when want or weariness overwhelmed us. There was scarcely anhour in the day that some of the women did not come to ask what news. They crept along the roads in twos and threes, and lingered for hourssitting by the way weeping, starting at every breath of wind. Meanwhile all was not silent within Semur. The Cathedral bells rangoften, at first filling us with hope, for how familiar was that sound!The first time, we all gathered together and listened, and many wept. It was as if we heard our mother's voice. M. De Bois-Sombre burst intotears. I have never seen him within the doors of the Cathedral since hismarriage; but he burst into tears. '_Mon Dieu!_ if I were but there!' hesaid. We stood and listened, our hearts melting, some falling on theirknees. M. Le Curé stood up in the midst of us and began to intone thepsalm: [He has a beautiful voice. It is sympathetic, it goes to theheart. ] 'I was glad when they said to me, Let us go up--' And thoughthere were few of us who could have supposed themselves capable oflistening to that sentiment a little while before with any sympathy, yeta vague hope rose up within us while we heard him, while we listened tothe bells. What man is there to whom the bells of his village, the_carillon_ of his city, is not most dear? It rings for him through allhis life; it is the first sound of home in the distance when he comesback--the last that follows him like a long farewell when he goes away. While we listened, we forgot our fears. They were as we were, they werealso our brethren, who rang those bells. We seemed to see them troopinginto our beautiful Cathedral. All! only to see it again, to be withinits shelter, cool and calm as in our mother's arms! It seemed to us thatwe should wish for nothing more. When the sound ceased we looked into each other's faces, and each mansaw that his neighbour was pale. Hope died in us when the sound diedaway, vibrating sadly through the air. Some men threw themselves on theground in their despair. And from this time forward many voices were heard, calls and shoutswithin the walls, and sometimes a sound like a trumpet, and otherinstruments of music. We thought, indeed, that noises as of bandspatrolling along the ramparts were audible as our patrols worked theirway round and round. This was a duty which I never allowed to beneglected, not because I put very much faith in it, but because it gaveus a sort of employment. There is a story somewhere which I recollectdimly of an ancient city which its assailants did not touch, but onlymarched round and round till the walls fell, and they could enter. Whether this was a story of classic times or out of our own remotehistory, I could not recollect. But I thought of it many times while wemade our way like a procession of ghosts, round and round, straining ourears to hear what those voices were which sounded above us, in tonesthat were familiar, yet so strange. This story got so much into my head(and after a time all our heads seemed to get confused and full of wildand bewildering expedients) that I found myself suggesting--I, a manknown for sense and reason--that we should blow trumpets at some time tobe fixed, which was a thing the ancients had done in the strange talewhich had taken possession of me. M. Le Curé looked at me withdisapproval. He said, 'I did not expect from M. Le Maire anything thatwas disrespectful to religion. ' Heaven forbid that I should bedisrespectful to religion at any time of life, but then it wasimpossible to me. I remembered after that the tale of which I speak, which had so seized upon me, was in the sacred writings; but those whoknow me will understand that no sneer at these writings or intention ofwounding the feelings of M. Le Curé was in my mind. I was seated one day upon a little inequality of the ground, leaning myback against a half-withered hawthorn, and dozing with my head in myhands, when a soothing, which always diffuses itself from her presence, shed itself over me, and opening my eyes, I saw my Agnès sitting by me. She had come with some food and a little linen, fresh and soft like herown touch. My wife was not gaunt and worn like me, but she was pale andas thin as a shadow. I woke with a start, and seeing her there, theresuddenly came a dread over me that she would pass away before my eyes, and go over to Those who were within Semur. I cried '_Non, mon Agnès;non, mon Agnès:_ before you ask, No!' seizing her and holding her fastin this dream, which was not altogether a dream. She looked at me with asmile, that smile that has always been to me as the rising of the sunover the earth. '_Mon ami_, ' she said surprised, 'I ask nothing, except that you shouldtake a little rest and spare thyself. ' Then she added, with haste, whatI knew she would say, 'Unless it were this, _mon ami_. If I werepermitted, I would go into the city--I would ask those who are therewhat is their meaning: and if no way can be found--no act ofpenitence. --Oh! do not answer in haste! I have no fear; and it would beto save thee. ' A strong throb of anger came into my throat. Figure to yourself that Ilooked at my wife with anger, with the same feeling which had moved mewhen the deserters left us; but far more hot and sharp. I seized hersoft hands and crushed them in mine. 'You would leave me!' I said. 'Youwould desert your husband. You would go over to our enemies!' 'O Martin, say not so, ' she cried, with tears. 'Not enemies. There isour little Marie, and my mother, who died when I was born. ' 'You love these dead tyrants. Yes, ' I said, 'you love them best. Youwill go to--the majority, to the strongest. Do not speak to me! Becauseyour God is on their side, you will forsake us too. ' Then she threw herself upon me and encircled me with her arms. The touchof them stilled my passion; but yet I held her, clutching her gown, soterrible a fear came over me that she would go and come back no more. 'Forsake thee!' she breathed out over me with a moan. Then, putting hercool cheek to mine, which burned, 'But I would die for thee, Martin. ' 'Silence, my wife: that is what you shall not do, ' I cried, besidemyself. I rose up; I put her away from me. That is, I know it, what hasbeen done. Their God does this, they do not hesitate to say--takes fromyou what you love best, to make you better--_you!_ and they ask you tolove Him when He has thus despoiled you! 'Go home, Agnès, ' I said, hoarse with terror. 'Let us face them as we may; you shall not go amongthem, or put thyself in peril. Die for me! _Mon Dieu!_ and what then, what should I do then? Turn your face from them; turn from them; go! go!and let me not see thee here again. ' My wife did not understand the terror that seized me. She obeyed me, asshe always does, but, with the tears falling from her white cheeks, fixed upon me the most piteous look. '_Mon ami_, ' she said, 'you aredisturbed, you are not in possession of yourself; this cannot be whatyou mean. ' 'Let me not see thee here again!' I cried. 'Would you make me mad inthe midst of my trouble? No! I will not have you look that way. Go home!go home!' Then I took her into my arms and wept, though I am not a mangiven to tears. 'Oh! my Agnès, ' I said, 'give me thy counsel. What youtell me I will do; but rather than risk thee, I would live thus forever, and defy them. ' She put her hand upon my lips. 'I will not ask this again, ' she said, bowing her head; 'but defy them--why should you defy them? Have theycome for nothing? Was Semur a city of the saints? They have come toconvert our people, Martin--thee too, and the rest. If you will submityour hearts, they will open the gates, they will go back to their sacredhomes and we to ours. This has been borne in upon me sleeping andwaking; and it seemed to me that if I could but go, and say, "Oh! myfathers, oh! my brothers, they submit, " all would be well. For I do notfear them, Martin. Would they harm me that love us? I would but giveour Marie one kiss----' 'You are a traitor!' I said. 'You would steal yourself from me, and dome the worst wrong of all----' But I recovered my calm. What she said reached my understanding at last. 'Submit!' I said, 'but to what? To come and turn us from our homes, towrap our town in darkness, to banish our wives and our children, toleave us here to be scorched by the sun and drenched by the rain, --thisis not to convince us, my Agnès. And to what then do you bid ussubmit----?' 'It is to convince you, _mon ami_, of the love of God, who has permittedthis great tribulation to be, that we might be saved, ' said Agnès. Herface was sublime with faith. It is possible to these dear women; but forme the words she spoke were but words without meaning. I shook my head. Now that my horror and alarm were passed, I could well remember often tohave heard words like these before. 'My angel!' I said, 'all this I admire, I adore in thee; but how is itthe love of God?--and how shall we be saved by it? Submit! I will doanything that is reasonable; but of what truth have we here theproof----?' Some one had come up behind as we were talking. When I heard his voice Ismiled, notwithstanding my despair. It was natural that the Churchshould come to the woman's aid. But I would not refuse to give ear to M. Le Curé, who had proved himself a man, had he been ten times a priest. 'I have not heard what Madame has been saying, M. Le Maire, neitherwould I interpose but for your question. You ask of what truth have wethe proof here? It is the Unseen that has revealed itself. Do we seeanything, you and I? Nothing, nothing, but a cloud. But that which wecannot see, that which we know not, that which we dread--look! it isthere. ' I turned unconsciously as he pointed with his hand. Oh, heaven, whatdid I see! Above the cloud that wrapped Semur there was a separation, arent in the darkness, and in mid heaven the Cathedral towers, pointingto the sky. I paid no more attention to M. Le Curé. I sent forth a shoutthat roused all, even the weary line of the patrol that was marchingslowly with bowed heads round the walls; and there went up such a cry ofjoy as shook the earth. 'The towers, the towers!' I cried. These werethe towers that could be seen leagues off, the first sign of Semur; ourtowers, which we had been born to love like our father's name. I havehad joys in my life, deep and great. I have loved, I have won honours, Ihave conquered difficulty; but never had I felt as now. It was as if onehad been born again. When we had gazed upon them, blessing them and thanking God, I gaveorders that all our company should be called to the tent, that we mightconsider whether any new step could now be taken: Agnès with the otherwomen sitting apart on one side and waiting. I recognised even in theexcitement of such a time that theirs was no easy part. To sit theresilent, to wait till we had spoken, to be bound by what we decided, andto have no voice--yes, that was hard. They thought they knew better thanwe did: but they were silent, devouring us with their eager eyes. I loveone woman more than all the world; I count her the best thing that Godhas made; yet would I not be as Agnès for all that life could give me. It was her part to be silent, and she was so, like the angel she is, while even Jacques Richard had the right to speak. _Mon Dieu!_ but it ishard, I allow it; they have need to be angels. This thought passedthrough my mind even at the crisis which had now arrived. For at suchmoments one sees everything, one thinks of everything, though it is onlyafter that one remembers what one has seen and thought. When myfellow-citizens gathered together (we were now less than a hundred innumber, so many had gone from us), I took it upon myself to speak. Wewere a haggard, worn-eyed company, having had neither shelter nor sleepnor even food, save in hasty snatches. I stood at the door of the tentand they below, for the ground sloped a little. Beside me were M. LeCuré, M. De Bois-Sombre, and one or two others of the chief citizens. 'My friends, ' I said, 'you have seen that a new circumstance hasoccurred. It is not within our power to tell what its meaning is, yet itmust be a symptom of good. For my own part, to see these towers makesthe air lighter. Let us think of the Church as we may, no one can denythat the towers of Semur are dear to our hearts. ' 'M. Le Maire, ' said M. De Bois-Sombre, interrupting, 'I speak I am surethe sentiments of my fellow-citizens when I say that there is no longerany question among us concerning the Church; it is an admirableinstitution, a universal advantage----' 'Yes, yes, ' said the crowd, 'yes, certainly!' and some added, 'It is theonly safeguard, it is our protection, ' and some signed themselves. Inthe crowd I saw Riou, who had done this at the _octroi_. But the signdid not surprise me now. M. Le Curé stood by my side, but he did not smile. His countenance wasdark, almost angry. He stood quite silent, with his eyes on the ground. It gave him no pleasure, this profession of faith. 'It is well, my friends, ' said I, 'we are all in accord; and the goodGod has permitted us again to see these towers. I have called youtogether to collect your ideas. This change must have a meaning. It hasbeen suggested to me that we might send an ambassador--a messenger, ifthat is possible, into the city--' Here I stopped short; and a shiver ran through me--a shiver which wentover the whole company. We were all pale as we looked in each other'sfaces; and for a moment no one ventured to speak. After this pause itwas perhaps natural that he who first found his voice should be the lastwho had any right to give an opinion. Who should it be but JacquesRichard? 'M. Le Maire, ' cried the fellow, 'speaks at his ease--but whowill thus risk himself?' Probably he did not mean that his grumblingshould be heard, but in the silence every sound was audible; there was agasp, a catching of the breath, and all turned their eyes again upon me. I did not pause to think what answer I should give. 'I!' I cried. 'Herestands one who will risk himself, who will perish if need be--' Something stirred behind me. It was Agnès who had risen to her feet, whostood with her lips parted and quivering, with her hands clasped, as ifabout to speak. But she did not speak. Well! she had proposed to do it. Then why not I? 'Let me make the observation, ' said another of our fellow-citizens, Bordereau the banker, 'that this would not be just. Without M. Le Mairewe should be a mob without a head. If a messenger is to be sent, let itbe some one not so indispensable----' 'Why send a messenger?' said another, Philip Leclerc. 'Do we know thatthese Messieurs will admit any one? and how can you speak, how can youparley with those--' and he too, was seized with a shiver--'whom youcannot see?' Then there came another voice out of the crowd. It was one who would notshow himself, who was conscious of the mockery in his tone. 'If there isany one sent, let it be M. Le Curé, ' it said. M. Le Curé stepped forward. His pale countenance flushed red. 'Here amI, ' he said, 'I am ready; but he who spoke speaks to mock me. Is itbefitting in this presence?' There was a struggle among the men. Whoever it was who had spoken (I didnot wish to know), I had no need to condemn the mocker; they themselvessilenced him; then Jacques Richard (still less worthy of credit) criedout again with a voice that was husky. What are men made of?Notwithstanding everything, it was from the _cabaret_, from thewine-shop, that he had come. He said, 'Though M. Le Maire will not takemy opinion, yet it is this. Let them reopen the chapel in the hospital. The ladies of St. Jean--' 'Hold thy peace, ' I said, 'miserable!' But a murmur rose. 'Though it isnot his part to speak, I agree, ' said one. 'And I. ' 'And I. ' There waswell-nigh a tumult of consent; and this made me angry. Words were on mylips which it might have been foolish to utter, when M. De Bois-Sombre, who is a man of judgment, interfered. 'M. Le Maire, ' he said, 'as there are none of us here who would showdisrespect to the Church and holy things--that is understood--it is notnecessary to enter into details. Every restriction that would wound themost susceptible is withdrawn; not one more than another, but all. Wehave been indifferent in the past, but for the future you will agreewith me that everything shall be changed. The ambassador--whoever he maybe--' he added with a catching of his breath, 'must be empowered topromise--everything--submission to all that may be required. ' Here the women could not restrain themselves; they all rose up with acry, and many of them began to weep. 'Ah!' said one with a hystericalsound of laughter in her tears. '_Sainte Mère_! it will be heaven uponearth. ' M. Le Curé said nothing; a keen glance of wonder, yet of subduedtriumph, shot from under his eyelids. As for me, I wrung my hands: 'Whatyou say will be superstition; it will be hypocrisy, ' I cried. But at that moment a further incident occurred. Suddenly, while wedeliberated, a long loud peal of a trumpet sounded into the air. I havealready said that many sounds had been heard before; but this wasdifferent; there was not one of us that did not feel that this wasaddressed to himself. The agitation was extreme; it was a summons, thebeginning of some distinct communication. The crowd scattered; but formyself, after a momentary struggle, I went forward resolutely. I did noteven look back at my wife. I was no longer Martin Dupin, but the Maireof Semur, the saviour of the community. Even Bois-Sombre quailed: but Ifelt that it was in me to hold head against death itself; and before Ihad gone two steps I felt rather than saw that M. Le Curé had come to myside. We went on without a word; gradually the others collected behindus, following yet straggling here and there upon the inequalities of theground. Before us lay the cloud that was Semur, a darkness defined by theshining of the summer day around, the river escaping from that gloom asfrom a cavern, the towers piercing through, but the sunshine thrown backon every side from that darkness. I have spoken of the walls as if wesaw them, but there were no walls visible, nor any gate, though we allturned like blind men to where the Porte St. Lambert was. There was thebroad vacant road leading up to it, leading into the gloom. We stoodthere at a little distance. Whether it was human weakness or aninvisible barrier, how can I tell? We stood thus immovable, with thetrumpet pealing out over us, out of the cloud. It summoned every man asby his name. To me it was not wonderful that this impression shouldcome, but afterwards it was elicited from all that this was the feelingof each. Though no words were said, it was as the calling of our names. We all waited in such a supreme agitation as I cannot describe for somecommunication that was to come. When suddenly, in a moment, the trumpet ceased; there was an interval ofdead and terrible silence; then, each with a leap of his heart as if itwould burst from his bosom, we saw a single figure slowly detach itselfout of the gloom. 'My God!' I cried. My senses went from me; I felt myhead go round like a straw tossed on the winds. To know them so near, those mysterious visitors--to feel them, to hearthem, was not that enough? But, to see! who could bear it? Our voicesrang like broken chords, like a tearing and rending of sound. Somecovered their faces with their hands; for our very eyes seemed to bedrawn out of their sockets, fluttering like things with a separate life. Then there fell upon us a strange and wonderful calm. The figureadvanced slowly; there was weakness in it. The step, though solemn, wasfeeble; and if you can figure to yourself our consternation, the pause, the cry--our hearts dropping back as it might be into their places--thesudden stop of the wild panting in our breasts: when there becamevisible to us a human face well known, a man as we were. 'Lecamus!' Icried; and all the men round took it up, crowding nearer, trembling yetdelivered from their terror; some even laughed in the relief. There wasbut one who had an air of discontent, and that was M. Le Curé. As hesaid 'Lecamus!' like the rest, there was impatience, disappointment, anger in his tone. And I, who had wondered where Lecamus had gone; thinking sometimes thathe was one of the deserters who had left us! But when he came nearer hisface was as the face of a dead man, and a cold chill came over us. Hiseyes, which were cast down, flickered under the thin eyelids in whichall the veins were visible. His face was gray like that of the dying. 'Is he dead?' I said. But, except M. Le Curé, no one knew that I spoke. 'Not even so, ' said M. Le Cure, with a mortification in his voice, whichI have never forgotten. 'Not even so. That might be something. Theyteach us not by angels--by the fools and offscourings of the earth. ' And he would have turned away. It was a humiliation. Was not he therepresentative of the Unseen, the vice-gerent, with power over heavenand hell? but something was here more strong than he. He stood by myside in spite of himself to listen to the ambassador. I will not denythat such a choice was strange, strange beyond measure, to me also. 'Lecamus, ' I said, my voice trembling in my throat, 'have you been amongthe dead, and do you live?' 'I live, ' he said; then looked around with tears upon the crowd. 'Goodneighbours, good friends, ' he said, and put out his hand and touchedthem; he was as much agitated as they. 'M. Lecamus, ' said I, 'we are here in very strange circumstances, as youknow; do not trifle with us. If you have indeed been with those who havetaken the control of our city, do not keep us in suspense. You will seeby the emblems of my office that it is to me you must address yourself;if you have a mission, speak. ' 'It is just, ' he said, 'it is just--but bear with me one moment. It isgood to behold those who draw breath; if I have not loved you enough, mygood neighbours, forgive me now!' 'Rouse yourself, Lecamus, ' said I with some anxiety. 'Three days we havebeen suffering here; we are distracted with the suspense. Tell us yourmessage--if you have anything to tell. ' 'Three days!' he said, wondering; 'I should have said years. Time islong when there is neither night nor day. ' Then, uncovering himself, heturned towards the city. 'They who have sent me would have you know thatthey come, not in anger but in friendship: for the love they bear you, and because it has been permitted----' As he spoke his feebleness disappeared. He held his head high; and weclustered closer and closer round him, not losing a half word, not atone, not a breath. 'They are not the dead. They are the immortal. They are those whodwell--elsewhere. They have other work, which has been interruptedbecause of this trial. They ask, "Do you know now--do you know now?"this is what I am bidden to say. ' 'What'--I said (I tried to say it, but my lips were dry), 'What wouldthey have us to know?' But a clamour interrupted me. 'Ah! yes, yes, yes!' the people cried, menand women; some wept aloud, some signed themselves, some held up theirhands to the skies. 'Nevermore will we deny religion, ' they cried, 'never more fail in our duties. They shall see how we will follow everyoffice, how the churches shall be full, how we will observe the feastsand the days of the saints! M. Lecamus, ' cried two or three together;'go, tell these Messieurs that we will have masses said for them, thatwe will obey in everything. We have seen what comes of it when a city iswithout piety. Never more will we neglect the holy functions; we willvow ourselves to the holy Mother and the saints--' 'And if those ladies wish it, ' cried Jacques Richard, 'there shall be asmany masses as there are priests to say them in the Hospital of St. Jean. ' 'Silence, fellow!' I cried; 'is it for you to promise in the name of theCommune?' I was almost beside myself. 'M. Lecamus. Is it for this thatthey have come?' His head had begun to droop again, and a dimness came over his face. 'DoI know?' he said. 'It was them I longed for, not to know their errand;but I have not yet said all. You are to send two--two whom you esteemthe highest--to speak with them face to face. ' Then at once there rose a tumult among the people--an eagerness whichnothing could subdue. There was a cry that the ambassadors were alreadyelected, and we were pushed forward, M. Le Curé and myself, towards thegate. They would not hear us speak. 'We promise, ' they cried, 'wepromise everything; let us but get back. ' Had it been to sacrifice usthey would have done the same; they would have killed us in theirpassion, in order to return to their city--and afterwards mourned us andhonoured us as martyrs. But for the moment they had neither ruth norfear. Had it been they who were going to reason not with flesh andblood, it would have been different; but it was we, not they; and theyhurried us on as not willing that a moment should be lost. I had tostruggle, almost to fight, in order to provide them with a leader, whichwas indispensable, before I myself went away. For who could tell if weshould ever come back? For a moment I hesitated, thinking that it mightbe well to invest M. De Bois-Sombre as my deputy with my scarf ofoffice; but then I reflected that when a man goes to battle, when hegoes to risk his life, perhaps to lose it, for his people, it is hisright to bear those signs which distinguish him from common men, whichshow in what office, for what cause, he is ready to die. Accordingly I paused, struggling against the pressure of the people, andsaid in a loud voice, 'In the absence of M. Barbou, who has forsaken us, I constitute the excellent M. Felix de Bois-Sombre my representative. Inmy absence my fellow-citizens will respect and obey him as myself. 'There was a cry of assent. They would have given their assent toanything that we might but go on. What was it to them? They took nothought of the heaving of my bosom, the beating of my heart. They leftus on the edge of the darkness with our faces towards the gate. There westood one breathless moment. Then the little postern slowly openedbefore us, and once more we stood within Semur. THE NARRATIVE OF PAUL LECAMUS. M. Le Maire having requested me, on his entrance into Semur, to lose notime in drawing up an account of my residence in the town, to be placedwith his own narrative, I have promised to do so to the best of myability, feeling that my condition is a very precarious one, and my timefor explanation may be short. Many things, needless to enumerate, pressthis upon my mind. It was a pleasure to me to see my neighbours when Ifirst came out of the city; but their voices, their touch, theirvehemence and eagerness wear me out. From my childhood up I have shrunkfrom close contact with my fellow-men. My mind has been busy with otherthoughts; I have desired to investigate the mysterious and unseen. WhenI have walked abroad I have heard whispers in the air; I have felt themovement of wings, the gliding of unseen feet. To my comrades these havebeen a source of alarm and disquiet, but not to me; is not God in theunseen with all His angels? and not only so, but the best and wisest ofmen. There was a time indeed, when life acquired for me a charm. Therewas a smile which filled me with blessedness, and made the sunshine moresweet. But when she died my earthly joys died with her. Since then Ihave thought of little but the depths profound, into which she hasdisappeared like the rest. I was in the garden of my house on that night when all the others leftSemur. I was restless, my mind was disturbed. It seemed to me that Iapproached the crisis of my life. Since the time when I led M. Le Mairebeyond the walls, and we felt both of us the rush and pressure of thatcrowd, a feeling of expectation had been in my mind. I knew not what Ilooked for--but something I looked for that should change the world. The 'Sommation' on the Cathedral doors did not surprise me. Why shouldit be a matter of wonder that the dead should come back? the wonder isthat they do not. Ah! that is the wonder. How one can go away who lovesyou, and never return, nor speak, nor send any message--that is themiracle: not that the heavens should bend down and the gates of Paradiseroll back, and those who have left us return. All my life it has been amarvel to me how they could be kept away. I could not stay in-doors onthis strange night. My mind was full of agitation. I came out into thegarden though it was dark. I sat down upon the bench under thetrellis--she loved it. Often had I spent half the night there thinkingof her. It was very dark that night: the sky all veiled, no light anywhere anight like November. One would have said there was snow in the air. Ithink I must have slept toward morning (I have observed throughout thatthe preliminaries of these occurrences have always been veiled insleep), and when I woke suddenly it was to find myself, if I may sospeak, the subject of a struggle. The struggle was within me, yet it wasnot I. In my mind there was a desire to rise from where I sat and goaway, I could not tell where or why; but something in me said stay, andmy limbs were as heavy as lead. I could not move; I sat still against mywill; against one part of my will--but the other was obstinate and wouldnot let me go. Thus a combat took place within me of which I knew notthe meaning. While it went on I began to hear the sound of many feet, the opening of doors, the people pouring out into the streets. This gaveme no surprise; it seemed to me that I understood why it was; only in myown case, I knew nothing. I listened to the steps pouring past, going onand on, faintly dying away in the distance, and there was a greatstillness. I then became convinced, though I cannot tell how, that I wasthe only living man left in Semur; but neither did this trouble me. Thestruggle within me came to an end, and I experienced a great calm. I cannot tell how long it was till I perceived a change in the air, inthe darkness round me. It was like the movement of some one unseen. Ihave felt such a sensation in the night, when all was still, before now. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. Yet I was aware, I cannot tell how, thatthere was a great coming and going, and the sensation as of a multitudein the air. I then rose and went into my house, where Leocadie, my oldhousekeeper, had shut all the doors so carefully when she went to bed. They were now all open, even the door of my wife's room of which I keptalways the key, and where no one entered but myself; the windows alsowere open. I looked out upon the Grande Rue, and all the other houseswere like mine. Everything was open, doors and windows, and the streetswere full. There was in them a flow and movement of the unseen, withouta sound, sensible only to the soul. I cannot describe it, for I neitherheard nor saw, but felt. I have often been in crowds; I have lived inParis, and once passed into England, and walked about the Londonstreets. But never, it seemed to me, never was I aware of so many, of sogreat a multitude. I stood at my open window, and watched as in a dream. M. Le Maire is aware that his house is visible from mine. Towards that astream seemed to be always going, and at the windows and in the doorwayswas a sensation of multitudes like that which I have already described. Gazing out thus upon the revolution which was happening before my eyes, I did not think of my own house or what was passing there, tillsuddenly, in a moment, I was aware that some one had come in to me. Nota crowd as elsewhere; one. My heart leaped up like a bird let loose; itgrew faint within me with joy and fear. I was giddy so that I could notstand. I called out her name, but low, for I was too happy, I had novoice. Besides was it needed, when heart already spoke to heart? I had no answer, but I needed none. I laid myself down on the floorwhere her feet would be. Her presence wrapped me round and round. It wasbeyond speech. Neither did I need to see her face, nor to touch herhand. She was more near to me, more near, than when I held her in myarms. How long it was so, I cannot tell; it was long as love, yet shortas the drawing of a breath. I knew nothing, felt nothing but Her, alone;all my wonder and desire to know departed from me. We said to each othereverything without words--heart overflowing into heart. It was beyondknowledge or speech. But this is not of public signification that I should occupy with it thetime of M. Le Maire. After a while my happiness came to an end. I can no more tell how, thanI can tell how it came. One moment, I was warm in her presence; thenext, I was alone. I rose up staggering with blindness and woe--could itbe that already, already it was over? I went out blindly following afterher. My God, I shall follow, I shall follow, till life is over. Sheloved me; but she was gone. Thus, despair came to me at the very moment when the longing of my soulwas satisfied and I found myself among the unseen; but I cared forknowledge no longer, I sought only her. I lost a portion of my time so. I regret to have to confess it to M. Le Maire. Much that I might havelearned will thus remain lost to my fellow-citizens and the world. Weare made so. What we desire eludes us at the moment of grasping it--orthose affections which are the foundation of our lives preoccupy us, andblind the soul. Instead of endeavouring to establish my faith andenlighten my judgment as to those mysteries which have been my life-longstudy, all higher purpose departed from me; and I did nothing but rushthrough the city, groping among those crowds, seeing nothing, thinkingof nothing--save of One. From this also I awakened as out of a dream. What roused me was thepealing of the Cathedral bells. I was made to pause and stand still, andreturn to myself. Then I perceived, but dimly, that the thing which hadhappened to me was that which I had desired all my life. I leave thisexplanation of my failure [Footnote: The reader will remember that theringing of the Cathedral bells happened in fact very soon after theexodus of the citizens; so that the self-reproaches of M. Lecamus hadless foundation than he thought. ] in public duty to the charity of M. LeMaire. The bells of the Cathedral brought me back to myself--to that which wecall reality in our language; but of all that was around me when Iregained consciousness, it now appeared to me that I only was a dream. Iwas in the midst of a world where all was in movement. What the currentwas which flowed around me I know not; if it was thought which becomessensible among spirits, if it was action, I cannot tell. But the energy, the force, the living that was in them, that could no one misunderstand. I stood in the streets, lagging and feeble, scarcely able to wish, muchless to think. They pushed against me, put me aside, took no note of me. In the unseen world described by a poet whom M. Le Maire has probablyheard of, the man who traverses Purgatory (to speak of no other place)is seen by all, and is a wonder to all he meets--his shadow, his breathseparate him from those around him. But whether the unseen life haschanged, or if it is I who am not worthy their attention, this I knowthat I stood in our city like a ghost, and no one took any heed of me. When there came back upon me slowly my old desire to inquire, tounderstand, I was met with this difficulty at the first--that no oneheeded me. I went through and through the streets, sometimes I paused tolook round, to implore that which swept by me to make itself known. Butthe stream went along like soft air, like the flowing of a river, setting me aside from time to time, as the air will displace a straw, orthe water a stone, but no more. There was neither languor nor lingering. I was the only passive thing, the being without occupation. Would youhave paused in your labours to tell an idle traveller the meaning of ourlives, before the day when you left Semur? Nor would they: I was drivenhither and thither by the current of that life, but no one stepped forthout of the unseen to hear my questions or to answer me how this mightbe. You have been made to believe that all was darkness in Semur. M. LeMaire, it was not so. The darkness wrapped the walls as in a windingsheet; but within, soon after you were gone, there arose a sweet andwonderful light--a light that was neither of the sun nor of the moon;and presently, after the ringing of the bells; the silence departed asthe darkness had departed. I began to hear, first a murmur, then thesound of the going which I had felt without hearing it--then a fainttinkle of voices--and at the last, as my mind grew attuned to thesewonders, the very words they said. If they spoke in our language or inanother, I cannot tell; but I understood. How long it was before thesensation of their presence was aided by the happiness of hearing I knownot, nor do I know how the time has passed, or how long it is, whetheryears or days, that I have been in Semur with those who are now there;for the light did not vary--there was no night or day. All I know isthat suddenly, on awakening from a sleep (for the wonder was that Icould sleep, sometimes sitting on the Cathedral steps, sometimes in myown house; where sometimes also I lingered and searched about for thecrusts that Leocadie had left), I found the whole world full of sound. They sang going in bands about the streets; they talked to each otheras they went along every way. From the houses, all open, where everyonecould go who would, there came the soft chiming of those voices. And atfirst every sound was full of gladness and hope. The song they sangfirst was like this: 'Send us, send us to our father's house. Many areour brethren, many and dear. They have forgotten, forgotten, forgotten!But when we speak, then will they hear. ' And the others answered: 'Wehave come, we have come to the house of our fathers. Sweet are thehomes, the homes we were born in. As we remember, so will they remember. When we speak, when we speak, they will hear. ' Do not think that thesewere the words they sang; but it was like this. And as they sang therewas joy and expectation everywhere. It was more beautiful than any ofour music, for it was full of desire and longing, yet hope and gladness;whereas among us, where there is longing, it is always sad. Later agreat singer, I know not who he was, one going past as on a majesticsoft wind, sang another song, of which I shall tell you by and by. I donot think he was one of them. They came out to the windows, to thedoors, into all the streets and byways to hear him as he went past. M. Le Maire will, however, be good enough to remark that I did notunderstand all that I heard. In the middle of a phrase, in a word halfbreathed, a sudden barrier would rise. For a time I laboured after theirmeaning, trying hard and vainly to understand; but afterwards Iperceived that only when they spoke of Semur, of you who were goneforth, and of what was being done, could I make it out. At first thismade me only more eager to hear; but when thought came, then I perceivedthat of all my longing nothing was satisfied. Though I was alone withthe unseen, I comprehended it not; only when it touched upon what Iknew, then I understood. At first all went well. Those who were in the streets, and at the doorsand windows of the houses, and on the Cathedral steps, where they seemedto throng, listening to the sounding of the bells, spoke only of thisthat they had come to do. Of you and you only I heard. They said to eachother, with great joy, that the women had been instructed, that they hadlistened, and were safe. There was pleasure in all the city. The singerswere called forth, those who were best instructed (so I judged from whatI heard), to take the place of the warders on the walls; and all, asthey went along, sang that song: 'Our brothers have forgotten; but whenwe speak, they will hear. ' How was it, how was it that you did not hear?One time I was by the river porte in a boat; and this song came to mefrom the walls as sweet as Heaven. Never have I heard such a song. Themusic was beseeching, it moved the very heart. 'We have come out of theunseen, ' they sang; 'for love of you; believe us, believe us! Lovebrings us back to earth; believe us, believe us!' How was it that youdid not hear? When I heard those singers sing, I wept; they beguiled theheart out of my bosom. They sang, they shouted, the music swept aboutall the walls: 'Love brings us back to earth, believe us!' M. Le Maire, I saw you from the river gate; there was a look of perplexity upon yourface; and one put his curved hand to his ear as if to listen to somethin far-off sound, when it was like a storm, like a tempest of music! After that there was a great change in the city. The choirs came backfrom the walls marching more slowly, and with a sighing through all theair. A sigh, nay, something like a sob breathed through the streets. 'They cannot hear us, or they will not hear us. ' Wherever I turned, thiswas what I heard: 'They cannot hear us. ' The whole town, and all thehouses that were teeming with souls, and all the street, where so manywere coming and going was full of wonder and dismay. (If you will takemy opinion, they know pain as well as joy, M. Le Maire, Those who arein Semur. They are not as gods, perfect and sufficing to themselves, norare they all-knowing and all-wise, like the good God. They hope like us, and desire, and are mistaken; but do no wrong. This is my opinion. I amno more than other men, that you should accept it without support; but Ihave lived among them, and this is what I think. ) They were taken bysurprise; they did not understand it any more than we understand when wehave put forth all our strength and fail. They were confounded, if Icould judge rightly. Then there arose cries from one to another: 'Do youforget what was said to us?' and, 'We were warned, we were warned. 'There went a sighing over all the city: 'They cannot hear us, our voicesare not as their voices; they cannot see us. We have taken their homesfrom them, and they know not the reason. ' My heart was wrung for theirdisappointment. I longed to tell them that neither had I heard at once;but it was only after a time that I ventured upon this. And whether Ispoke, and was heard; or if it was read in my heart, I cannot tell. There was a pause made round me as if of wondering and listening, andthen, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, a face suddenly turnedand looked into my face. M. Le Maire, it was the face of your father, Martin Dupin, whom Iremember as well as I remember my own father. He was the best man I everknew. It appeared to me for a moment, that face alone, looking at mewith questioning eyes. There seemed to be agitation and doubt for a time after this; some wentout (so I understood) on embassies among you, but could get no hearing;some through the gates, some by the river. And the bells were rung thatyou might hear and know; but neither could you understand the bells. Iwandered from one place to another, listening and watching--till theunseen became to me as the seen, and I thought of the wonder no more. Sometimes there came to me vaguely a desire to question them, to askwhence they came and what was the secret of their living, and why theywere here? But if I had asked who would have heard me? and desire hadgrown faint in my heart; all I wished for was that you should hear, thatyou should understand; with this wish Semur was full. They thought butof this. They went to the walls in bands, each in their order, and asthey came all the others rushed to meet them, to ask, 'What news?' Ifollowing, now with one, now with another, breathless and footsore asthey glided along. It is terrible when flesh and blood live with thosewho are spirits. I toiled after them. I sat on the Cathedral steps, andslept and waked, and heard the voices still in my dream. I prayed, butit was hard to pray. Once following a crowd I entered your house, M. LeMaire, and went up, though I scarcely could drag myself along. Theremany were assembled as in council. Your father was at the head of all. He was the one, he only, who knew me. Again he looked at me and I sawhim, and in the light of his face an assembly such as I have seen inpictures. One moment it glimmered before me and then it was gone. Therewere the captains of all the bands waiting to speak, men and women. Iheard them repeating from one to another the same tale. One voice wassmall and soft like a child's; it spoke of you. 'We went to him, ' itsaid; and your father, M. Le Maire, he too joined in, and said: 'We wentto him--but he could not hear us. ' And some said it was enough--thatthey had no commission from on high, that they were but permitted--thatit was their own will to do it--and that the time had come to forbear. Now, while I listened, my heart was grieved that they should fail. Thisgave me a wound for myself who had trusted in them, and also for them. But I, who am I, a poor man without credit among my neighbours, adreamer, one whom many despise, that I should come to their aid? Yet Icould not listen and take no part. I cried out: 'Send me. I will tellthem in words they understand. ' The sound of my voice was like a roar inthat atmosphere. It sent a tremble into the air. It seemed to rend me asit came forth from me, and made me giddy, so that I would have fallenhad not there been a support afforded me. As the light was going out ofmy eyes I saw again the faces looking at each other, questioning, benign, beautiful heads one over another, eyes that were clear as theheavens, but sad. I trembled while I gazed: there was the bliss ofheaven in their faces, yet they were sad. Then everything faded. I wasled away, I know not how, and brought to the door and put forth. I wasnot worthy to see the blessed grieve. That is a sight upon which theangels look with awe, and which brings those tears which are salvationinto the eyes of God. I went back to my house, weary yet calm. There were many in my house;but because my heart was full of one who was not there, I knew not thosewho were there. I sat me down where she had been. I was weary, moreweary than ever before, but calm. Then I bethought me that I knew nomore than at the first, that I had lived among the unseen as if theywere my neighbours, neither fearing them, nor hearing those wonderswhich they have to tell. As I sat with my head in my hands, two talkedto each other close by: 'Is it true that we have failed?' said one; andthe other answered, 'Must not all fail that is not sent of the Father?'I was silent; but I knew them, they were the voices of my father and mymother. I listened as out of a faint, in a dream. While I sat thus, with these voices in my ears, which a little whilebefore would have seemed to me more worthy of note than anything onearth, but which now lulled me and comforted me, as a child is comfortedby the voices of its guardians in the night, there occurred a new thingin the city like nothing I had heard before. It roused menotwithstanding my exhaustion and stupor. It was the sound as of someone passing through the city suddenly and swiftly, whether in somewonderful chariot, whether on some sweeping mighty wind, I cannot tell. The voices stopped that were conversing beside me, and I stood up, andwith an impulse I could not resist went out, as if a king were passingthat way. Straight, without turning to the right or left, through thecity, from one gate to another, this passenger seemed going; and as hewent there was the sound as of a proclamation, as if it were a heralddenouncing war or ratifying peace. Whosoever he was, the sweep of hisgoing moved my hair like a wind. At first the proclamation was but as agreat shout, and I could not understand it; but as he came nearer thewords became distinct. 'Neither will they believe--though one rose fromthe dead. ' As it passed a murmur went up from the city, like the voiceof a great multitude. Then there came sudden silence. At this moment, for a time--M. Le Maire will take my statement for whatit is worth--I became unconscious of what passed further. Whetherweariness overpowered me and I slept, as at the most terrible momentnature will demand to do, or if I fainted I cannot tell; but for a timeI knew no more. When I came to myself, I was seated on the Cathedralsteps with everything silent around me. From thence I rose up, moved bya will which was not mine, and was led softly across the Grande Rue, through the great square, with my face towards the Porte St. Lambert. Iwent steadily on without hesitation, never doubting that the gates wouldopen to me, doubting nothing, though I had never attempted to withdrawfrom the city before. When I came to the gate I said not a word, nor anyone to me; but the door rolled slowly open before me, and I was putforth into the morning light, into the shining of the sun. I have nowsaid everything I had to say. The message I delivered was said throughme, I can tell no more. Let me rest a little; figure to yourselves, Ihave known no night of rest, nor eaten a morsel of bread for--did yousay it was but three days? M. LE MAIRE RESUMES HIS NARRATIVE. We re-entered by the door for foot-passengers which is by the side ofthe great Porte St. Lambert. I will not deny that my heart was, as one may say, in my throat. A mandoes what is his duty, what his fellow-citizens expect of him; but thatis not to say that he renders himself callous to natural emotion. Myveins were swollen, the blood coursing through them like a high-flowingriver; my tongue was parched and dry. I am not ashamed to admit thatfrom head to foot my body quivered and trembled. I was afraid--but Iwent forward; no man can do more. As for M. Le Curé he said not a word. If he had any fears he concealed them as I did. But his occupation iswith the ghostly and spiritual. To see men die, to accompany them tothe verge of the grave, to create for them during the time of theirsuffering after death (if it is true that they suffer), an interest inheaven, this his profession must necessarily give him courage. Myposition is very different. I have not made up my mind upon thesesubjects. When one can believe frankly in all the Church says, manythings become simple, which otherwise cause great difficulty in themind. The mysterious and wonderful then find their natural place in thecourse of affairs; but when a man thinks for himself, and has to takeeverything on his own responsibility, and make all the necessaryexplanations, there is often great difficulty. So many things will notfit into their places, they straggle like weary men on a march. Onecannot put them together, or satisfy one's self. The sun was shining outside the walls when we re-entered Semur; but thefirst step we took was into a gloom as black as night, which did notre-assure us, it is unnecessary to say. A chill was in the air, of nightand mist. We shivered, not with the nerves only but with the cold. Andas all was dark, so all was still. I had expected to feel the presenceof those who were there, as I had felt the crowd of the invisible beforethey entered the city. But the air was vacant, there was nothing butdarkness and cold. We went on for a little way with a strange fervour ofexpectation. At each moment, at each step, it seemed to me that somegreat call must be made upon my self-possession and courage, some eventhappen; but there was nothing. All was calm, the houses on either sideof the way were open, all but the office of the _octroi_ which was blackas night with its closed door. M. Le Curé has told me since that hebelieved Them to be there, though unseen. This idea, however, was not inmy mind. I had felt the unseen multitude; but here the air was free, there was no one interposing between us, who breathed as men, and thewalls that surrounded us. Just within the gate a lamp was burning, hanging to its rope over our heads; and the lights were in the houses asif some one had left them there; they threw a strange glimmer into thedarkness, flickering in the wind. By and by as we went on the gloomlessened, and by the time we had reached the Grande Rue, there was aclear steady pale twilight by which we saw everything, as by the lightof day. We stood at the corner of the square and looked round. Although still Iheard the beating of my own pulses loudly working in my ears, yet it wasless terrible than at first. A city when asleep is wonderful to look on, but in all the closed doors and windows one feels the safety and reposesheltered there which no man can disturb; and the air has in it a senseof life, subdued, yet warm. But here all was open, and all deserted. Thehouse of the miser Grosgain was exposed from the highest to the lowest, but nobody was there to search for what was hidden. The hotel deBois-Sombre, with its great _porte-cochère, _ always so jealously closed;and my own house, which my mother and wife have always guarded socarefully, that no damp nor breath of night might enter, had every doorand window wide open. Desolation seemed seated in all these emptyplaces. I feared to go into my own dwelling. It seemed to me as if thedead must be lying within. _Bon Dieu!_ Not a soul, not a shadow; allvacant in this soft twilight; nothing moving, nothing visible. The greatdoors of the Cathedral were wide open, and every little entry. Howspacious the city looked, how silent, how wonderful! There was room fora squadron to wheel in the great square, but not so much as a bird, nota dog; all pale and empty. We stood for a long time (or it seemed a longtime) at the corner, looking right and left. We were afraid to make astep farther. We knew not what to do. Nor could I speak; there was muchI wished to say, but something stopped my voice. At last M. Le Curé found utterance. His voice so moved the silence, thatat first my heart was faint with fear; it was hoarse, and the soundrolled round the great square like muffled thunder. One did not seem toknow what strange faces might rise at the open windows, what terrorsmight appear. But all he said was, 'We are ambassadors in vain. ' What was it that followed? My teeth chattered. I could not hear. It wasas if 'in vain!--in vain!' came back in echoes, more and more distantfrom every opening. They breathed all around us, then were still, thenreturned louder from beyond the river. M. Le Curé, though he is aspiritual person, was no more courageous than I. With one impulse, weput out our hands and grasped each other. We retreated back to back, like men hemmed in by foes, and I felt his heart beating wildly, and hemine. Then silence, silence settled all around. It was now my turn to speak. I would not be behind, come what might, though my lips were parched with mental trouble. I said, 'Are we indeed too late? Lecamus must have deceived himself. ' To this there came no echo and no reply, which would be a relief, youmay suppose; but it was not so. It was well-nigh more appalling, moreterrible than the sound; for though we spoke thus, we did not believethe place was empty. Those whom we approached seemed to be wrappingthemselves in silence, invisible, waiting to speak with some awfulpurpose when their time came. There we stood for some minutes, like two children, holding each other'shands, leaning against each other at the corner of the square--ashelpless as children, waiting for what should come next. I say itfrankly, my brain and my heart were one throb. They plunged and beat sowildly that I could scarcely have heard any other sound. In this respectI think he was more calm. There was on his face that look of intenselistening which strains the very soul. But neither he nor I heardanything, not so much as a whisper. At last, 'Let us go on, ' I said. Westumbled as we went, with agitation and fear. We were afraid to turn ourbacks to those empty houses, which seemed to gaze at us with all theirempty windows pale and glaring. Mechanically, scarce knowing what I wasdoing, I made towards my own house. There was no one there. The rooms were all open and empty. I went fromone to another, with a sense of expectation which made my heart faint;but no one was there, nor anything changed. Yet I do wrong to say thatnothing was changed. In my library, where I keep my books, where myfather and grandfather conducted their affairs, like me, one littledifference struck me suddenly, as if some one had dealt me a blow. Theold bureau which my grandfather had used, at which I remember standingby his knee, had been drawn from the corner where I had placed it outof the way (to make room for the furniture I preferred), and replaced, as in old times, in the middle of the room. It was nothing; yet how muchwas in this! though only myself could have perceived it. Some of the olddrawers were open, full of old papers. I glanced over there in myagitation, to see if there might be any writing, any message addressedto me; but there was nothing, nothing but this silent sign of those whohad been here. Naturally M. Le Curé, who kept watch at the door, wasunacquainted with the cause of my emotion. The last room I entered wasmy wife's. Her veil was lying on the white bed, as if she had gone outthat moment, and some of her ornaments were on the table. It seemed tome that the atmosphere of mystery which filled the rest of the house wasnot here. A ribbon, a little ring, what nothings are these? Yet theymake even emptiness sweet. In my Agnès's room there is a little shrine, more sacred to us than any altar. There is the picture of our littleMarie. It is covered with a veil, embroidered with needlework which itis a wonder to see. Not always can even Agnès bear to look upon the faceof this angel, whom God has taken from her. She has worked the littlecurtain with lilies, with white and virginal flowers; and no hand, noteven mine, ever draws it aside. What did I see? The veil was boldlyfolded away; the face of the child looked at me across her mother's bed, and upon the frame of the picture was laid a branch of olive, withsilvery leaves. I know no more but that I uttered a great cry, and flungmyself upon my knees before this angel-gift. What stranger could knowwhat was in my heart? M. Le Curé, my friend, my brother, came hastily tome, with a pale countenance; but when he looked at me, he drew back andturned away his face, and a sob came from his breast. Never child hadcalled him father, were it in heaven, were it on earth. Well I knewwhose tender fingers had placed the branch of olive there. I went out of the room and locked the door. It was just that my wifeshould find it where it had been laid. I put my arm into his as we went out once more into the street. Thatmoment had made us brother and brother. And this union made us morestrong. Besides, the silence and the emptiness began to grow lessterrible to us. We spoke in our natural voices as we came out, scarcelyknowing how great was the difference between them and the whispers whichhad been all we dared at first to employ. Yet the sound of these loudertones scared us when we heard them, for we were still trembling, notassured of deliverance. It was he who showed himself a man, not I; formy heart was overwhelmed, the tears stood in my eyes, I had no strengthto resist my impressions. 'Martin Dupin, ' he said suddenly, 'it is enough. We are frighteningourselves with shadows. We are afraid even of our own voices. This mustnot be. Enough! Whosoever they were who have been in Semur, theirvisitation is over, and they are gone. ' 'I think so, ' I said faintly; 'but God knows. ' Just then somethingpassed me as sure as ever man passed me. I started back out of the wayand dropped my friend's arm, and covered my eyes with my hands. It wasnothing that could be seen; it was an air, a breath. M. Le Curé lookedat me wildly; he was as a man beside himself. He struck his foot uponthe pavement and gave a loud and bitter cry. 'Is it delusion?' he said, 'O my God! or shall not even this, not evenso much as this be revealed to me?' To see a man who had so ruled himself, who had resisted everydisturbance and stood fast when all gave way, moved thus at the verylast to cry out with passion against that which had been denied to him, brought me back to myself. How often had I read it in his eyes before!He--the priest--the servant of the unseen--yet to all of us lay personshad that been revealed which was hid from him. A great pity was withinme, and gave me strength. 'Brother, ' I said, 'we are weak. If we sawheaven opened, could we trust to our vision now? Our imaginations aremasters of us. So far as mortal eye can see, we are alone in Semur. Haveyou forgotten your psalm, and how you sustained us at the first? Andnow, your Cathedral is open to you, my brother. _Lætatus sum_, ' I said. It was an inspiration from above, and no thought of mine; for it is wellknown, that though deeply respectful, I have never professed religion. With one impulse we turned, we went together, as in a procession, acrossthe silent place, and up the great steps. We said not a word to eachother of what we meant to do. All was fair and silent in the holy place;a breath of incense still in the air; a murmur of psalms (as one couldimagine) far up in the high roof. There I served, while he said hismass. It was for my friend that this impulse came to my mind; but I wasrewarded. The days of my childhood seemed to come back to me. Alltrouble, and care, and mystery, and pain, seemed left behind. All Icould see was the glimmer on the altar of the great candle-sticks, thesacred pyx in its shrine, the chalice, and the book. I was again an_enfant de choeur_ robed in white, like the angels, no doubt, nodisquiet in my soul--and my father kneeling behind among the faithful, bowing his head, with a sweetness which I too knew, being a father, because it was his child that tinkled the bell and swung the censer. Never since those days have I served the mass. My heart grew soft withinme as the heart of a little child. The voice of M. Le Curé was full oftears--it swelled out into the air and filled the vacant place. I kneltbehind him on the steps of the altar and wept. Then there came a sound that made our hearts leap in our bosoms. Hisvoice wavered as if it had been struck by a strong wind; but he was abrave man, and he went on. It was the bells of the Cathedral that pealedout over our heads. In the midst of the office, while we knelt allalone, they began to ring as at Easter or some great festival. At firstsoftly, almost sadly, like choirs of distant singers, that died away andwere echoed and died again; then taking up another strain, they rang outinto the sky with hurrying notes and clang of joy. The effect uponmyself was wonderful. I no longer felt any fear. The illusion wascomplete. I was a child again, serving the mass in my littlesurplice--aware that all who loved me were kneeling behind, that thegood God was smiling, and the Cathedral bells ringing out their majesticAmen. M. Le Curé came down the altar steps when his mass was ended. Togetherwe put away the vestments and the holy vessels. Our hearts were soft;the weight was taken from them. As we came out the bells were dyingaway in long and low echoes, now faint, now louder, like mingled voicesof gladness and regret. And whereas it had been a pale twilight when weentered, the clearness of the day had rolled sweetly in, and now it wasfair morning in all the streets. We did not say a word to each other, but arm and arm took our way to the gates, to open to our neighbours, tocall all our fellow-citizens back to Semur. If I record here an incident of another kind, it is because of thesequel that followed. As we passed by the hospital of St. Jean, we hearddistinctly, coming from within, the accents of a feeble yet impatientvoice. The sound revived for a moment the troubles that were stilledwithin us--but only for a moment. This was no visionary voice. Itbrought a smile to the grave face of M. Le Curé and tempted me well nighto laughter, so strangely did this sensation of the actual, break anddisperse the visionary atmosphere. We went in without any timidity, with a conscious relaxation of the great strain upon us. In a littlenook, curtained off from the great ward, lay a sick man upon his bed. 'Is it M. Le Maire?' he said; 'à la bonne heure! I have a complaint tomake of the nurses for the night. They have gone out to amusethemselves; they take no notice of poor sick people. They have known fora week that I could not sleep; but neither have they given me a sleepingdraught, nor endeavoured to distract me with cheerful conversation. Andto-day, look you, M. Le Maire, not one of the sisters has come near me!' 'Have you suffered, my poor fellow?' I said; but he would not go so faras this. 'I don't want to make complaints, M. Le Maire; but the sisters do notcome themselves as they used to do. One does not care to have a strangenurse, when one knows that if the sisters did their duty--But if it doesnot occur any more I do not wish it to be thought that I am the one tocomplain. ' 'Do not fear, mon ami, ' I said. 'I will say to the Reverend Mother thatyou have been left too long alone. ' 'And listen, M. Le Maire, ' cried the man; 'those bells, will they neverbe done? My head aches with the din they make. How can one go to sleepwith all that riot in one's ears?' We looked at each other, we could not but smile. So that which is joyand deliverance to one is vexation to another. As we went out again intothe street the lingering music of the bells died out, and (for the firsttime for all these terrible days and nights) the great clock struck thehour. And as the clock struck, the last cloud rose like a mist anddisappeared in flying vapours, and the full sunshine of noon burst onSemur. SUPPLEMENT BY M. DE BOIS-SOMBRE. When M. Le Maire disappeared within the mist, we all remained behindwith troubled hearts. For my own part I was alarmed for my friend. M. Martin Dupin is not noble. He belongs, indeed, to the _hautebourgeoisie, _ and all his antecedents are most respectable; but it ishis personal character and admirable qualities which justify me incalling him my friend. The manner in which he has performed his dutiesto his fellow-citizens during this time of distress has been sublime. Itis not my habit to take any share in public life; the unhappycircumstances of France have made this impossible for years. Nevertheless, I put aside my scruples when it became necessary, to leavehim free for his mission. I gave no opinion upon that mission itself, or how far he was right in obeying the advice of a hare-brainedenthusiast like Lecamus. Nevertheless the moment had come at which ourbanishment had become intolerable. Another day, and I should haveproposed an assault upon the place. Our dead forefathers, though I wouldspeak of them with every respect, should not presume upon theirprivilege. I do not pretend to be braver than other men, nor have Ishown myself more equal than others to cope with the present emergency. But I have the impatience of my countrymen, and rather than rot hereoutside the gates, parted from Madame de Bois-Sombre and my children, who, I am happy to state, are in safety at the country house of thebrave Dupin, I should have dared any hazard. This being the case, a newstep of any kind called for my approbation, and I could not refuse underthe circumstances--especially as no ceremony of installation wasrequired or profession of loyalty to one government or another--to takeupon me the office of coadjutor and act as deputy for my friend Martinoutside the walls of Semur. The moment at which I assumed the authority was one of greatdiscouragement and depression. The men were tired to death. Their mindswere worn out as well as their bodies. The excitement and fatigue hadbeen more than they could bear. Some were for giving up the contest andseeking new homes for themselves. These were they, I need not remark, who had but little to lose; some seemed to care for nothing but to liedown and rest. Though it produced a great movement among us when Lecamussuddenly appeared coming out of the city; and the undertaking of Dupinand the excellent Curé was viewed with great interest, yet there couldnot but be signs apparent that the situation had lasted too long. It was_tendu_ in the strongest degree, and when that is the case a reactionmust come. It is impossible to say, for one thing, how treat was ourpersonal discomfort. We were as soldiers campaigning without acommissariat, or any precautions taken for our welfare; no food savewhat was sent to us from La Clairière and other places; no means ofcaring for our personal appearance, in which lies so much of thematerials of self respect. I say nothing of the chief features ofall--the occupation of our homes by others--the forcible expulsion ofwhich we had been the objects. No one could have been more deeplyimpressed than myself at the moment of these extraordinary proceedings;but we cannot go on with one monotonous impression, however serious, weother Frenchmen. Three days is a very long time to dwell in one thought;I myself had become impatient, I do not deny. To go away, which wouldhave been very natural, and which Agathe proposed, was contrary to myinstincts and interests both. I trust I can obey the logic ofcircumstances as well as another; but to yield is not easy, and to leavemy hotel at Semur--now the chief residence, alas! of theBois-Sombres--probably to the licence of a mob--for one can never tellat what moment Republican institutions may break down and sink back intothe chaos from which they arose--was impossible. Nor would I forsake thebrave Dupin without the strongest motive; but that the situation wasextremely _tendu_, and a reaction close at hand, was beyond dispute. I resisted the movement which my excellent friend made to take off andtransfer to me his scarf of office. These things are much thought ofamong the _bourgeoisie_. '_Mon ami_, ' I said, 'you cannot tell what useyou may have for it; whereas our townsmen know me, and that I am not oneto take up an unwarrantable position. ' We then accompanied him to theneighbourhood of the Porte St. Lambert. It was at that time invisible;we could but judge approximately. My men were unwilling to approach toonear, neither did I myself think it necessary. We parted, after givingthe two envoys an honourable escort, leaving a clear space between usand the darkness. To see them disappear gave us all a startlingsensation. Up to the last moment I had doubted whether they would obtainadmittance. When they disappeared from our eyes, there came upon all ofus an impulse of alarm. I myself was so far moved by it, that I calledout after them in a sudden panic. For if any catastrophe had happened, how could I ever have forgiven myself, especially as Madame Dupin de laClairière, a person entirely _comme il faut_, and of the mostdistinguished character, went after her husband, with a touchingdevotion, following him to the very edge of the darkness? I do notthink, so deeply possessed was he by his mission, that he saw her. Dupinis very determined in his way; but he is imaginative and thoughtful, andit is very possible that, as he required all his powers to brace him forthis enterprise, he made it a principle neither to look to the righthand nor the left. When we paused, and following after our tworepresentatives, Madame Dupin stepped forth, a thrill ran through usall. Some would have called to her, for I heard many brokenexclamations; but most of us were too much startled to speak. We thoughtnothing less than that she was about to risk herself by going after theminto the city. If that was her intention--and nothing is more probable;for women are very daring, though they are timid--she was stopped, it ismost likely, by that curious inability to move a step farther which wehave all experienced. We saw her pause, clasp her hands in despair (orit might be in token of farewell to her husband), then, instead ofreturning, seat herself on the road on the edge of the darkness. It wasa relief to all who were looking on to see her there. In the reaction after that excitement I found myself in face of a greatdifficulty--what to do with my men, to keep them from demoralisation. They were greatly excited; and yet there was nothing to be done forthem, for myself, for any of us, but to wait. To organise the patrolagain, under the circumstances, would have been impossible. Dupin, perhaps, might have tried it with that _bourgeois_ determination whichso often carries its point in spite of all higher intelligence; but tome, who have not this commonplace way of looking at things, it wasimpossible. The worthy soul did not think in what a difficulty he leftus. That intolerable, good-for-nothing Jacques Richard (whom Dupinprotects unwisely, I cannot tell why), and who was alreadyhalf-seas-over, had drawn several of his comrades with him towards the_cabaret_, which was always a danger to us. 'We will drink success to M. Le Maire, ' he said, '_mes bons amis_! That can do no one any harm; andas we have spoken up, as we have empowered him to offer handsome termsto _Messieurs les Morts_----' It was intolerable. Precisely at the moment when our fortune hung in thebalance, and when, perhaps, an indiscreet word--'Arrest that fellow, ' Isaid. 'Riou, you are an official; you understand your duty. Arrest himon the spot, and confine him in the tent out of the way of mischief. Twoof you mount guard over him. And let a party be told off, of which youwill take the command, Louis Bertin, to go at once to La Clairière andbeg the Reverend Mothers of the hospital to favour us with theirpresence. It will be well to have those excellent ladies in our frontwhatever happens; and you may communicate to them the unanimous decisionabout their chapel. You, Robert Lemaire, with an escort, will proceed tothe _campagne_ of M. Barbou, and put him in possession of thecircumstances. Those of you who have a natural wish to seek a littlerepose will consider yourselves as discharged from duty and permitted todo so. Your Maire having confided to me his authority--not without yourconsent--(this I avow I added with some difficulty, for who cared fortheir assent? but a Republican Government offers a premium to everyinsincerity), I wait with confidence to see these dispositions carriedout. ' This, I am happy to say, produced the best effect. They obeyed mewithout hesitation; and, fortunately for me, slumber seized upon themajority. Had it not been for this, I can scarcely tell how I shouldhave got out of it. I felt drowsy myself, having been with the patrolthe greater part of the night; but to yield to such weakness was, in myposition, of course impossible. This, then, was our attitude during the last hours of suspense, whichwere perhaps the most trying of all. In the distance might be seen thelittle bands marching towards La Clairière, on one side, and M. Barbou'scountry-house ('La Corbeille des Raisins') on the other. It goes withoutsaying that I did not want M. Barbou, but it was the first errand Icould think of. Towards the city, just where the darkness began thatenveloped it, sat Madame Dupin. That _sainte femme_ was praying for herhusband, who could doubt? And under the trees, wherever they could finda favourable spot, my men lay down on the grass, and most of them fellasleep. My eyes were heavy enough, but responsibility drives away rest. I had but one nap of five minutes' duration, leaning against a tree, when it occurred to me that Jacques Richard, whom I sent under escorthalf-drunk to the tent, was not the most admirable companion for thatpoor visionary Lecamus, who had been accommodated there. I rousedmyself, therefore, though unwillingly, to see whether these two, sodiscordant, could agree. I met Lecamus at the tent-door. He was coming out, very feeble andtottering, with that dazed look which (according to me) has always beencharacteristic of him. He had a bundle of papers in his hand. He hadbeen setting in order his report of what had happened to him, to besubmitted to the Maire. 'Monsieur, ' he said, with some irritation(which I forgave him), 'you have always been unfavourable to me. I oweit to you that this unhappy drunkard has been sent to disturb me in myfeebleness and the discharge of a public duty. ' 'My good Monsieur Lecamus, ' said I, 'you do my recollection too muchhonour. The fact is, I had forgotten all about you and your public duty. Accept my excuses. Though indeed your supposition that I should havetaken the trouble to annoy you, and your description of thatgood-for-nothing as an unhappy drunkard, are signs of intolerance whichI should not have expected in a man so favoured. ' This speech, though too long, pleased me, for a man of this species, arevolutionary (are not all visionaries revolutionaries?) is always, whenoccasion offers, to be put down. He disarmed me, however, by hishumility. He gave a look round. 'Where can I go?' he said, and there waspathos in his voice. At length he perceived Madame Dupin sitting almostmotionless on the road. 'Ah!' he said, 'there is my place. ' The man, Icould not but perceive, was very weak. His eyes were twice their naturalsize, his face was the colour of ashes; through his whole frame therewas a trembling; the papers shook in his hand. A compunction seized mymind: I regretted to have sent that piece of noise and folly to disturba poor man so suffering and weak. 'Monsieur Lecamus, ' I said, 'forgiveme. I acknowledge that it was inconsiderate. Remain here in comfort, andI will find for this unruly fellow another place of confinement. ' 'Nay, ' he said, 'there is my place, ' pointing to where Madame Dupin sat. I felt disposed for a moment to indulge in a pleasantry, to say that Iapproved his taste; but on second thoughts I forebore. He went totteringslowly across the broken ground, hardly able to drag himself along. 'Hashe had any refreshment?' I asked of one of the women who were about. They told me yes, and this restored my composure; for after all I hadnot meant to annoy him, I had forgotten he was there--a trivial fault incircumstances so exciting. I was more easy in my mind, however, Iconfess it, when I saw that he had reached his chosen position safely. The man looked so weak. It seemed to me that he might have died on theroad. I thought I could almost perceive the gate, with Madame Dupin seatedunder the battlements, her charming figure relieved against the gloom, and that poor Lecamus lying, with his papers fluttering at her feet. This was the last thing I was conscious of. EXTRACT FROM THE NARRATIVE OF MADAME DUPIN DE LA CLAIRIÈRE (_née_ DECHAMPFLEURIE). I went with my husband to the city gate. I did not wish to distract hismind from what he had undertaken, therefore I took care he should notsee me; but to follow close, giving the sympathy of your whole heart, must not that be a support? If I am asked whether I was content to lethim go, I cannot answer yes; but had another than Martin been chosen, Icould not have borne it. What I desired, was to go myself. I was notafraid: and if it had proved dangerous, if I had been broken and crushedto pieces between the seen and the unseen, one could not have had amore beautiful fate. It would have made me happy to go. But perhaps itwas better that the messenger should not be a woman; they might havesaid it was delusion, an attack of the nerves. We are not trusted inthese respects, though I find it hard to tell why. But I went with Martin to the gate. To go as far as was possible, to beas near as possible, that was something. If there had been room for meto pass, I should have gone, and with such gladness! for God He knowsthat to help to thrust my husband into danger, and not to share it, wasterrible to me. But no; the invisible line was still drawn, beyond whichI could not stir. The door opened before him, and closed upon me. Butthough to see him disappear into the gloom was anguish, yet to know thathe was the man by whom the city should be saved was sweet. I sat down onthe spot where my steps were stayed. It was close to the wall, wherethere is a ledge of stonework round the basement of the tower. There Isat down to wait till he should come again. If any one thinks, however, that we, who were under the shelter of theroof of La Clairière were less tried than our husbands, it is a mistake;our chief grief was that we were parted from them, not knowing whatsuffering, what exposure they might have to bear, and knowing that theywould not accept, as most of us were willing to accept, theinterpretation of the mystery; but there was a certain comfort in thefact that we had to be very busy, preparing a little food to take tothem, and feeding the others. La Clairière is a little country house, not a great château, and it was taxed to the utmost to afford somecovert to the people. The children were all sheltered and cared for; butas for the rest of us we did as we could. And how gay they were, all thelittle ones! What was it to them all that had happened? It was a fêtefor them to be in the country, to be so many together, to run in thefields and the gardens. Sometimes their laughter and their happinesswere more than we could bear. Agathe de Bois-Sombre, who takes lifehardly, who is more easily deranged than I, was one who was muchdisturbed by this. But was it not to preserve the children that we werecommanded to go to La Clairière? Some of the women also were not easy tobear with. When they were put into our rooms they too found it a fête, and sat down among the children, and ate and drank, and forgot what itwas; what awful reason had driven us out of our homes. These were not, oh let no one think so! the majority; but there were some, it cannot bedenied; and it was difficult for me to calm down Bonne Maman, and keepher from sending them away with their babes. 'But they are_misérables_, ' she said. 'If they were to wander and be lost, if theywere to suffer as thou sayest, where would be the harm? I have nopatience with the idle, with those who impose upon thee. ' It is possiblethat Bonne Maman was right--but what then? 'Preserve the children andthe sick, ' was the mission that had been given to me. My own room wasmade the hospital. Nor did this please Bonne Maman. She bid me if I didnot stay in it myself to give it to the Bois-Sombres, to some whodeserved it. But is it not they who need most who deserve most? BonneMaman cannot bear that the poor and wretched should live in her Martin'schamber. He is my Martin no less. But to give it up to our Lord is notthat to sanctify it? There are who have put Him into their own bed whenthey imagined they were but sheltering a sick beggar there; that Heshould have the best was sweet to me: and could not I pray all thebetter that our Martin should be enlightened, should come to the truesanctuary? When I said this Bonne Maman wept. It was the grief of herheart that Martin thought otherwise than as we do. Nevertheless shesaid, 'He is so good; the _bon Dieu_ knows how good he is;' as if evenhis mother could know that so well as I! But with the women and the children crowding everywhere, the sick in mychamber, the helpless in every corner, it will be seen that we, too, hadmuch to do. And our hearts were elsewhere, with those who were watchingthe city, who were face to face with those in whom they had notbelieved. We were going and coming all day long with food for them, andthere never was a time of the night or day that there were not many ofus watching on the brow of the hill to see if any change came in Semur. Agathe and I, and our children, were all together in one little room. She believed in God, but it was not any comfort to her; sometimes shewould weep and pray all day long; sometimes entreat her husband toabandon the city, to go elsewhere and live, and fly from this strangefate. She is one who cannot endure to be unhappy--not to have what shewishes. As for me, I was brought up in poverty, and it is no wonder ifI can more easily submit. She was not willing that I should come thismorning to Semur. In the night the Mère Julie had roused us, saying shehad seen a procession of angels coming to restore us to the city. Ah! tothose who have no knowledge it is easy to speak of processions ofangels. But to those who have seen what an angel is--how they flock uponus unawares in the darkness, so that one is confused, and scarce cantell if it is reality or a dream; to those who have heard a little voicesoft as the dew coming out of heaven! I said to them--for all were in agreat tumult--that the angels do not come in processions, they stealupon us unaware, they reveal themselves in the soul. But they did notlisten to me; even Agathe took pleasure in hearing of the revelation. Asfor me, I had denied myself, I had not seen Martin for a night and aday. I took one of the great baskets, and I went with the women who werethe messengers for the day. A purpose formed itself in my heart, it wasto make my way into the city, I know not how, and implore them to havepity upon us before the people were distraught. Perhaps, had I been ableto refrain from speaking to Martin, I might have found the occasion Iwished; but how could I conceal my desire from my husband? And now allis changed, I am rejected and he is gone. He was more worthy. BonneMaman is right. Our good God, who is our father, does He require thatone should make profession of faith, that all should be alike? He seesthe heart; and to choose my Martin, does not that prove that He lovesbest that which is best, not I, or a priest, or one who makesprofessions? Thus, I sat down at the gate with a great confidence, though also a trembling in my heart. He who had known how to choose himamong all the others, would not He guard him? It was a proof to me onceagain that heaven is true, that the good God loves and comprehends usall, to see how His wisdom, which is unerring, had chosen the best manin Semur. And M. Le Curé, that goes without saying, he is a priest of priests, atrue servant of God. I saw my husband go: perhaps, God knows, into danger, perhaps to someencounter such as might fill the world with awe--to meet those who readthe thought in your mind before it comes to your lips. Well! there is nothought in Martin that is not noble and true. Me, I have follies in myheart, every kind of folly; but he!--the tears came in a flood to myeyes, but I would not shed them, as if I were weeping for fear andsorrow--no--but for happiness to know that falsehood was not in him. Mylittle Marie, a holy virgin, may look into her father's heart--I do notfear the test. The sun came warm to my feet as I sat on the foundation of our city, butthe projection of the tower gave me a little shade. All about was agreat peace. I thought of the psalm which says, 'He will give it to Hisbeloved sleeping'--that is true; but always there are some who are usedas instruments, who are not permitted to sleep. The sounds that camefrom the people gradually ceased; they were all very quiet. M. DeBois-Sombre I saw at a distance making his dispositions. Then M. PaulLecamus, whom I had long known, came up across the field, and seatedhimself close to me upon the road. I have always had a great sympathywith him since the death of his wife; ever since there has been anabstraction in his eyes, a look of desolation. He has no children or anyone to bring him back to life. Now, it seemed to me that he had the airof a man who was dying. He had been in the city while all of us had beenoutside. 'Monsieur Lecamus, ' I said, 'you look very ill, and this is not a placefor you. Could not I take you somewhere, where you might be more at yourease?' 'It is true, Madame, ' he said, 'the road is hard, but the sunshine issweet; and when I have finished what I am writing for M. Le Maire, itwill be over. There will be no more need--' I did not understand what he meant. I asked him to let me help him, buthe shook his head. His eyes were very hollow, in great caves, and hisface was the colour of ashes. Still he smiled. 'I thank you, Madame, ' hesaid, 'infinitely; everyone knows that Madame Dupin is kind; but when itis done, I shall be free. ' 'I am sure, M. Lecamus, that my husband--that M. Le Maire--would notwish you to trouble yourself, to be hurried--' 'No, ' he said, 'not he, but I. Who else could write what I have towrite? It must be done while it is day. ' 'Then there is plenty of time, M. Lecamus. All the best of the day isyet to come; it is still morning. If you could but get as far as LaClairière. There we would nurse you--restore you. ' He shook his head. 'You have enough on your hands at La Clairière, ' hesaid; and then, leaning upon the stones, he began to write again withhis pencil. After a time, when he stopped, I ventured to ask--'MonsieurLecamus, is it, indeed, Those----whom we have known, who are in Semur?' He turned his dim eyes upon me. 'Does Madame Dupin, ' he said, 'requireto ask?' 'No, no. It is true. I have seen and heard. But yet, when a little timepasses, you know? one wonders; one asks one's self, was it a dream?' 'That is what I fear, ' he said. 'I, too, if life went on, might ask, notwithstanding all that has occurred to me, Was it a dream?' 'M. Lecamus, you will forgive me if I hurt you. You saw--_her_?' 'No. Seeing--what is seeing? It is but a vulgar sense, it is not all;but I sat at her feet. She was with me. We were one, as of old----. ' Agleam of strange light came into his dim eyes. 'Seeing is noteverything, Madame. ' 'No, M. Lecamus. I heard the dear voice of my little Marie. ' 'Nor is hearing everything, ' he said hastily. 'Neither did she speak;but she was there. We were one; we had no need to speak. What isspeaking or hearing when heart wells into heart? For a very littlemoment, only for a moment, Madame Dupin. ' I put out my hand to him; I could not say a word. How was it possiblethat she could go away again, and leave him so feeble, so worn, alone? 'Only a very little moment, ' he said, slowly. 'There were othervoices--but not hers. I think I am glad it was in the spirit we met, sheand I--I prefer not to see her till--after----' 'Oh, M. Lecamus, I am too much of the world! To see them, to hearthem--it is for this I long. ' 'No, dear Madame. I would not have it till--after----. But I must makehaste, I must write, I hear the hum approaching----' I could not tell what he meant; but I asked no more. How stilleverything was The people lay asleep on the grass, and I, too, wasoverwhelmed by the great quiet. I do not know if I slept, but I dreamed. I saw a child very fair and tall always near me, but hiding her face. Itappeared to me in my dream that all I wished for was to see this hiddencountenance, to know her name; and that I followed and watched her, butfor a long time in vain. All at once she turned full upon me, held outher arms to me. Do I need to say who it was? I cried out in my dream tothe good God, that He had done well to take her from me--that this wasworth it all. Was it a dream? I would not give that dream for rears ofwaking life. Then I started and came back, in a moment, to the stillmorning sunshine, the sight of the men asleep, the roughness of the wallagainst which I leant. Some one laid a hand on mine. I opened my eyes, not knowing what it was--if it might be my husband coming back, or herwhom I had seen in my dream. It was M. Lecamus. He had risen up upon hisknees--his papers were all laid aside. His eyes in those hollow caveswere opened wide, and quivering with a strange light. He had caught mywrist with his worn hand. 'Listen!' he said; his voice fell to awhisper; a light broke over his face. 'Listen!' he cried; 'they arecoming. ' While he thus grasped my wrist, holding up his weak andwavering body in that strained attitude, the moments passed very slowly. I was afraid of him, of his worn face and thin hands, and the wildeagerness about him. I am ashamed to say it, but so it was. And for thisreason it seemed long to me, though I think not more than a minute, tillsuddenly the bells rang out, sweet and glad as they ring at Easter forthe resurrection. There had been ringing of bells before, but not likethis. With a start and universal movement the sleeping men got up fromwhere they lay--not one but every one, coming out of the little hollowsand from under the trees as if from graves. They all sprang up tolisten, with one impulse; and as for me, knowing that Martin was in thecity, can it be wondered at if my heart beat so loud that I wasincapable of thought of others! What brought me to myself was thestrange weight of M. Lecamus on my arm. He put his other hand upon me, all cold in the brightness, all trembling. He raised himself thus slowlyto his feet. When I looked at him I shrieked aloud. I forgot all else. His face was transformed--a smile came upon it that was ineffable--thelight blazed up, and then quivered and flickered in his eyes like adying flame. All this time he was leaning his weight upon my arm. Thensuddenly he loosed his hold of me, stretched out his hands, stood up, and--died. My God! shall I ever forget him as he stood--his head raised, his hands held out, his lips moving, the eyelids opened wide with aquiver, the light flickering and dying He died first, standing up, saying something with his pale lips--then fell. And it seemed to me allat once, and for a moment, that I heard a sound of many people marchingpast, the murmur and hum of a great multitude; and softly, softly I wasput out of the way, and a voice said, '_Adieu, ma soeur_. ' '_Ma soeur_!'who called me '_Ma soeur_'? I have no sister. I cried out, saying I knownot what. They told me after that I wept and wrung my hands, and said, 'Not thee, not thee, Marie!' But after that I knew no more. THE NARRATIVE of MADAME VEUVE DUPIN (_née_ LEPELLETIER). To complete the _procés verbal_, my son wishes me to give my account ofthe things which happened out of Semur during its miraculous occupation, as it is his desire, in the interests of truth, that nothing should beleft out. In this I find a great difficulty for many reasons; in thefirst place, because I have not the aptitude of expressing myself inwriting, and it may well be that the phrases I employ may fail in thecorrectness which good French requires; and again, because it is mymisfortune not to agree in all points with my Martin, though I am proudto think that he is, in every relation of life, so good a man, that thewomen of his family need not hesitate to follow his advice--butnecessarily there are some points which one reserves; and I cannot butfeel the closeness of the connection between the late remarkableexhibition of the power of Heaven and the outrage done upon the goodSisters of St. Jean by the administration, of which unfortunately my sonis at the head. I say unfortunately, since it is the spirit ofindependence and pride in him which has resisted all the warningsoffered by Divine Providence, and which refuses even now to right thewrongs of the Sisters of St. Jean; though, if it may be permitted to meto say it, as his mother, it was very fortunate in the late troublesthat Martin Dupin found himself at the head of the Commune ofSemur--since who else could have kept his self-control as hedid?--caring for all things and forgetting nothing; who else would, withso much courage, have entered the city? and what other man, being aperson of the world and secular in all his thoughts, as, alas! it is socommon for men to be, would have so nobly acknowledged his obligationsto the good God when our misfortunes were over? My constant prayers forhis conversion do not make me incapable of perceiving the nobility ofhis conduct. When the evidence has been incontestible he has nothesitated to make a public profession of his gratitude, which all willacknowledge to be the sign of a truly noble mind and a heart of gold. I have long felt that the times were ripe for some exhibition of thepower of God. Things have been going very badly among us. Not only havethe powers of darkness triumphed over our holy church, in a manner everto be wept and mourned by all the faithful, and which might have beenexpected to bring down fire from Heaven upon our heads, but thecorruption of popular manners (as might also have been expected) hasbeen daily arising to a pitch unprecedented. The fêtes may indeed besaid to be observed, but in what manner? In the cabarets rather than inthe churches; and as for the fasts and vigils, who thinks of them? whoattends to those sacred moments of penitence? Scarcely even a few ladiesare found to do so, instead of the whole population, as in duty bound. Ihave even seen it happen that my daughter-in-law and myself, and herfriend Madame de Bois-Sombre, and old Mère Julie from the market, haveformed the whole congregation. Figure to yourself the _bon Dieu_ and allthe blessed saints looking down from heaven to hear--four persons onlyin our great Cathedral! I trust that I know that the good God does notdespise even two or three; but if any one will think of it--the greatbells rung, and the candles lighted, and the curé in his beautifulrobes, and all the companies of heaven looking on--and only us four!This shows the neglect of all sacred ordinances that was in Semur. While, on the other hand, what grasping there was for money; what fraudand deceit; what foolishness and dissipation! Even the Mère Julieherself, though a devout person, the pears she sold to us on the lastmarket day before these events, were far, very far, as she must haveknown, from being satisfactory. In the same way Gros-Jean, though apeasant from our own village near La Clairière, and a man for whom wehave often done little services, attempted to impose upon me about thewood for the winter's use, the very night before these occurrences. 'Itis enough, ' I cried out, 'to bring the dead out of their graves. ' I didnot know--the holy saints forgive me!--how near it was to the momentwhen this should come true. And perhaps it is well that I should admit without concealment that I amnot one of the women to whom it has been given to see those who cameback. There are moments when I will not deny I have asked myself whythose others should have been so privileged and never I. Not even in adream do I see those whom I have lost; yet I think that I too have lovedthem as well as any have been loved. I have stood by their beds to thelast; I have closed their beloved eyes. _Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ have not Idrunk of that cup to the dregs? But never to me, never to me, has itbeen permitted either to see or to hear. _Bien_! it has been so ordered. Agnès, my daughter-in-law, is a good woman. I have not a word to sayagainst her; and if there are moments when my heart rebels, when I askmyself why she should have her eyes opened and not I, the good God knowsthat I do not complain against His will--it is in His hand to do as Hepleases. And if I receive no privileges, yet have I the privilege whichis best, which is, as M. Le Curé justly observes, the highest of all--that of doing my duty. In this I thank the good Lord our Seigneur thatmy Martin has never needed to be ashamed of his mother. I will also admit that when it was first made apparent to me--not by thesounds of voices which the others heard, but by the use of my reasonwhich I humbly believe is also a gift of God--that the way in which Icould best serve both those of the city and my son Martin, who is overthem, was to lead the way with the children and all the helpless to LaClairière, thus relieving the watchers, there was for a time a greatstruggle in my bosom. What were they all to me, that I should desert myMartin, my only son, the child of my old age; he who is as his father, as dear, and yet more dear, because he is his father's son? 'What! (Isaid in my heart) abandon thee, my child? nay, rather abandon life andevery consolation; for what is life to me but thee?' But while my heartswelled with this cry, suddenly it became apparent to me how many therewere holding up their hands helplessly to him, clinging to him so thathe could not move. To whom else could they turn? He was the one amongall who preserved his courage, who neither feared nor failed. When thosevoices rang out from the walls--which some understood, but which I didnot understand, and many more with me--though my heart was wrung withstraining my ears to listen if there was not a voice for me too, yet atthe same time this thought was working in my heart. There was a poorwoman close to me with little children clinging to her; neither did sheknow what those voices said. Her eyes turned from Semur, all lost in thedarkness, to the sky above us and to me beside her, all confused andbewildered; and the children clung to her, all in tears, crying withthat wail which is endless--the trouble of childhood which does not knowwhy it is troubled. 'Maman! Maman!' they cried, 'let us go home. ' 'Oh!be silent, my little ones, ' said the poor woman; 'be silent; we will goto M. Le Maire--he will not leave us without a friend. ' It was then thatI saw what my duty was. But it was with a pang--_bon Dieu!_--when Iturned my back upon my Martin, when I went away to shelter, to peace, leaving my son thus in face of an offended Heaven and all the invisiblepowers, do you suppose it was a whole heart I carried in my breast? Butno! it was nothing save a great ache--a struggle as of death. But whatof that? I had my duty to do, as he had--and as he did not flinch, sodid not I; otherwise he would have been ashamed of his mother--and I? Ishould have felt that the blood was not mine which ran in his veins. No one can tell what it was, that march to La Clairière. Agnès at firstwas like an angel. I hope I always do Madame Martin justice. She is asaint. She is good to the bottom of her heart. Nevertheless, with thosenatures which are enthusiast--which are upborne by excitement--there isalso a weakness. Though she was brave as the holy Pucelle when we setout, after a while she flagged like another. The colour went out of herface, and though she smiled still, yet the tears came to her eyes, andshe would have wept with the other women, and with the wail of theweary children, and all the agitation, and the weariness, and the lengthof the way, had not I recalled her to herself. 'Courage!' I said to her. 'Courage, _ma fille!_ We will throw open all the chambers. I will giveup even that one in which my Martin Dupin, the father of thy husband, died. ' '_Ma mère_, ' she said, holding my hand to her bosom, 'he is notdead--he is in Semur. ' Forgive me, dear Lord! It gave me a pang that shecould see him and not I. 'For me, ' I cried, 'it is enough to know thatmy good man is in heaven: his room, which I have kept sacred, shall begiven up to the poor. ' But oh! the confusion of the stumbling, wearyfeet; the little children that dropped by the way, and caught at ourskirts, and wailed and sobbed; the poor mothers with babes upon eacharm, with sick hearts and failing limbs. One cry seemed to rise round usas we went, each infant moving the others to sympathy, till it rose likeone breath, a wail of 'Maman! Maman!' a cry that had no meaning, through having so much meaning. It was difficult not to cry out too inthe excitement, in the labouring of the long, long, confused, andtedious way. 'Maman! Maman!' The Holy Mother could not but hear it. Itis not possible but that she must have looked out upon us, and heard us, so helpless as we were, where she sits in heaven. When we got to La Clairière we were ready to sink down with fatigue likeall the rest--nay, even more than the rest, for we were not used to it, and for my part I had altogether lost the habitude of long walks. Butthen you could see what Madame Martin was. She is slight and fragile andpale, not strong, as any one can perceive; but she rose above the needsof the body. She was the one among us who rested not. We threw open allthe rooms, and the poor people thronged in. Old Léontine, who is the_garde_ of the house, gazed upon us and the crowd whom we brought withus with great eyes full of fear and trouble. 'But, Madame, ' she cried, 'Madame!' following me as I went above to the better rooms. She pulledme by my robe. She pushed the poor women with their children away. '_Allez donc, allez_!--rest outside till these ladies have time to speakto you, ' she said; and pulled me by my sleeve. Then 'Madame Martin isputting all this _canaille_ into our very chambers, ' she cried. She hadalways distrusted Madame Martin, who was taken by the peasants for aclerical and a dévote, because she was noble. 'The _bon Dieu_ be praisedthat Madame also is here, who has sense and will regulate everything. ''These are no _canaille, '_ I said: 'be silent, _ma bonne_ Léontine, hereis something which you cannot understand. This is Semur which has comeout to us for lodging. ' She let the keys drop out of her hands. It wasnot wonderful if she was amazed. All day long she followed me about, hervery mouth open with wonder. 'Madame Martin, that understands itself, 'she would say. 'She is romanesque--she has imagination--but Madame, Madame has _bon sens_--who would have believed it of Madame?' Léontinehad been my _femme de ménage_ long before there was a Madame Martin, when my son was young; and naturally it was of me she still thought. ButI cannot put down all the trouble we had ere we found shelter for everyone. We filled the stables and the great barn, and all the cottagesnear; and to get them food, and to have something provided for those whowere watching before the city, and who had no one but us to think ofthem, was a task which was almost beyond our powers. Truly it was beyondour powers--but the Holy Mother of heaven and the good angels helped us. I cannot tell to any one how it was accomplished, yet it wasaccomplished. The wail of the little ones ceased. They slept that firstnight as if they had been in heaven. As for us, when the night came, andthe dews and the darkness, it seemed to us as if we were out of ourbodies, so weary were we, so weary that we could not rest. From LaClairière on ordinary occasions it is a beautiful sight to see thelights of Semur shining in all the high windows, and the streetsthrowing up a faint whiteness upon the sky; but how strange it was nowto look down and see nothing but a darkness--a cloud, which was thecity! The lights of the watchers in their camp were invisible tous, --they were so small and low upon the broken ground that we could notsee them. Our Agnès crept close to me; we went with one accord to theseat before the door. We did not say 'I will go, ' but went by oneimpulse, for our hearts were there; and we were glad to taste thefreshness of the night and be silent after all our labours. We leantupon each other in our weariness. 'Ma mère, ' she said, 'where is he now, our Martin?' and wept. 'He is where there is the most to do, be thousure of that, ' I cried, but wept not. For what did I bring him into theworld but for this end? Were I to go day by day and hour by hour over that time of trouble, thestory would not please any one. Many were brave and forgot their ownsorrows to occupy themselves with those of others, but many also werenot brave. There were those among us who murmured and complained. Somewould contend with us to let them go and call their husbands, and leavethe miserable country where such things could happen. Some would raveagainst the priests and the government, and some against those whoneglected and offended the Holy Church. Among them there were those whodid not hesitate to say it was our fault, though how we were answerablethey could not tell. We were never at any time of the day or nightwithout a sound of some one weeping or bewailing herself, as if she werethe only sufferer, or crying out against those who had brought her here, far from all her friends. By times it seemed to me that I could bear itno longer, that it was but justice to turn those murmurers_(pleureuses)_ away, and let them try what better they could do forthemselves. But in this point Madame Martin surpassed me. I do notgrudge to say it. She was better than I was, for she was more patient. She wept with the weeping women, then dried her eyes and smiled uponthem without a thought of anger--whereas I could have turned them to thedoor. One thing, however, which I could not away with, was that Agnèsfilled her own chamber with the poorest of the poor. 'How, ' I cried, thyself and thy friend Madame de Bois-Sombre, were you not enough tofill it, that you should throw open that chamber to good-for-nothings, to _va-nu-pieds_, to the very rabble?' '_Ma mère, '_ said Madame Martin, 'our good Lord died for them. ' 'And surely for thee too, thousaint-imbécile!' I cried out in my indignation. What, my Martin'schamber which he had adorned for his bride! I was beside myself. Andthey have an obstinacy these enthusiasts! But for that matter her friendMadame de Bois-Sombre thought the same. She would have been one of the_pleureuses_ herself had it not been for shame. 'Agnès wishes to aid the_bon Dieu_, Madame, ' she said, 'to make us suffer still a little more. 'The tone in which she spoke, and the contraction in her forehead, as ifour hospitality was not enough for her, turned my heart again to mydaughter-in-law. 'You have reason, Madame, ' I cried; 'there are indeedmany ways in which Agnès does the work of the good God. ' TheBois-Sombres are poor, they have not a roof to shelter them save that ofthe old hotel in Semur, from whence they were sent forth like the restof us. And she and her children owed all to Agnès. Figure to yourselfthen my resentment when this lady directed her scorn at mydaughter-in-law. I am not myself noble, though of the _hautebourgeoisie_, which some people think a purer race. Long and terrible were the days we spent in this suspense. For ourselvesit was well that there was so much to do--the food to provide for allthis multitude, the little children to care for, and to prepare theprovisions for our men who were before Semur. I was in the Ardennesduring the war, and I saw some of its perils--but these were nothing towhat we encountered now. It is true that my son Martin was not in thewar, which made it very different to me; but here the dangers were suchas we could not understand, and they weighed upon our spirits. The seatat the door, and that point where the road turned, where there wasalways so beautiful a view of the valley and of the town of Semur--wereconstantly occupied by groups of poor people gazing at the darkness inwhich their homes lay. It was strange to see them, some kneeling andpraying with moving lips; some taking but one look, not able to endurethe sight. I was of these last. From time to time, whenever I had amoment, I came out, I know not why, to see if there was any change. Butto gaze upon that altered prospect for hours, as some did, would havebeen intolerable to me. I could not linger nor try to imagine what mightbe passing there, either among those who were within (as was believed), or those who were without the walls. Neither could I pray as many did. My devotions of every day I will never, I trust, forsake or forget, andthat my Martin was always in my mind is it needful to say? But to goover and over all the vague fears that were in me, and all thosethoughts which would have broken my heart had they been put into words, I could not do this even to the good Lord Himself. When I sufferedmyself to think, my heart grew sick, my head swam round, the light wentfrom my eyes. They are happy who can do so, who can take the _bon Dieu_into their confidence, and say all to Him; but me, I could not do it. Icould not dwell upon that which was so terrible, upon my home abandoned, my son--Ah! now that it is past, it is still terrible to think of. Andthen it was all I was capable of, to trust my God and do what was setbefore me. God, He knows what it is we can do and what we cannot. Icould not tell even to Him all the terror and the misery and thedarkness there was in me; but I put my faith in Him. It was all of whichI was capable. We are not made alike, neither in the body nor in thesoul. And there were many women like me at La Clairière. When we had done eachpiece of work we would look out with a kind of hope, then go back tofind something else to do--not looking at each other, not saying a word. Happily there was a great deal to do. And to see how some of the women, and those the most anxious, would work, never resting, going on from onething to another, as if they were hungry for more and more! Some did itwith their mouths shut close, with their countenances fixed, not daringto pause or meet another's eyes; but some, who were more patient, workedwith a soft word, and sometimes a smile, and sometimes a tear; but everworking on. Some of them were an example to us all. In the morning, whenwe got up, some from beds, some from the floor, --I insisted that allshould lie down, by turns at least, for we could not make room for everyone at the same hours, --the very first thought of all was to hasten tothe window, or, better, to the door. Who could tell what might havehappened while we slept? For the first moment no one would speak, --itwas the moment of hope--and then there would be a cry, a clasping of thehands, which told--what we all knew. The one of the women who touched myheart most was the wife of Riou of the _octroi_. She had been almostrich for her condition in life, with a good house and a little servantwhom she trained admirably, as I have had occasion to know. Her husbandand her son were both among those whom we had left under the walls ofSemur; but she had three children with her at La Clairière. Madame Riouslept lightly, and so did I. Sometimes I heard her stir in the middle ofthe night, though so softly that no one woke. We were in the same room, for it may be supposed that to keep a room to one's self was notpossible. I did not stir, but lay and watched her as she went to thewindow, her figure visible against the pale dawning of the light, withan eager quick movement as of expectation--then turning back with slowerstep and a sigh. She was always full of hope. As the days went on, therecame to be a kind of communication between us. We understood each other. When one was occupied and the other free, that one of us who went out tothe door to look across the valley where Semur was would look at theother as if to say, 'I go. ' When it was Madame Riou who did this, Ishook my head, and she gave me a smile which awoke at every repetition(though I knew it was vain) a faint expectation, a little hope. When shecame back, it was she who would shake her head, with her eyes full oftears. 'Did I not tell thee?' I said, speaking to her as if she were mydaughter. 'It will be for next time, Madame, ' she would say, and smile, yet put her apron to her eyes. There were many who were like her, andthere were those of whom I have spoken who were _pleureuses_, neverhoping anything, doing little, bewailing themselves and their hard fate. Some of them we employed to carry the provisions to Semur, and thisamused them, though the heaviness of the baskets made again a complaint. As for the children, thank God! they were not disturbed as we were--tothem it was a beautiful holiday--it was like Heaven. There is no placeon earth that I love like Semur, yet it is true that the streets arenarrow, and there is not much room for the children. Here they werehappy as the day; they strayed over all our gardens and the meadows, which were full of flowers; they sat in companies upon the green grass, as thick as the daisies themselves, which they loved. Old SisterMariette, who is called Marie de la Consolation, sat out in the meadowunder an acacia-tree and watched over them. She was the one among us whowas happy. She had no son, no husband, among the watchers, and though, no doubt, she loved her convent and her hospital, yet she sat all daylong in the shade and in the full air, and smiled, and never lookedtowards Semur. 'The good Lord will do as He wills, ' she said, 'and thatwill be well. ' It was true--we all knew it was true; but it mightbe--who could tell?--that it was His will to destroy our town, and takeaway our bread, and perhaps the lives of those who were dear to us; andsomething came in our throats which prevented a reply. '_Ma soeur_, ' Isaid, 'we are of the world, we tremble for those we love; we are not asyou are. ' Sister Mariette did nothing but smile upon us. 'I have knownmy Lord these sixty years, ' she said, 'and He has taken everything fromme. ' To see her smile as she said this was more than I could bear. Fromme He had taken something, but not all. Must we be prepared to give upall if we would be perfected? There were many of the others also whotrembled at these words. 'And now He gives me my consolation, ' she said, and called the little ones round her, and told them a tale of the GoodShepherd, which is out of the holy Gospel. To see all the little onesround her knees in a crowd, and the peaceful face with which she smiledupon them, and the meadows all full of flowers, and the sunshine comingand going through the branches: and to hear that tale of Him who wentforth to seek the lamb that was lost, was like a tale out of a holybook, where all was peace and goodness and joy. But on the other side, not twenty steps off, was the house full of those who wept, and at allthe doors and windows anxious faces gazing down upon that cloud in thevalley where Semur was. A procession of our women was coming back, manywith lingering steps, carrying the baskets which were empty. 'Is thereany news?' we asked, reading their faces before they could answer. Andsome shook their heads, and some wept. There was no other reply. On the last night before our deliverance, suddenly, in the middle of thenight, there was a great commotion in the house. We all rose out of ourbeds at the sound of the cry, almost believing that some one at thewindow had seen the lifting of the cloud, and rushed together, frightened, yet all in an eager expectation to hear what it was. It wasin the room where the old Mère Julie slept that the disturbance was. Mère Julie was one of the market-women of Semur, the one I havementioned who was devout, who never missed the _Salut_ in the afternoon, besides all masses which are obligatory. But there were other mattersin which she had not satisfied my mind, as I have before said. She wasthe mother of Jacques Richard, who was a good-for-nothing, as is wellknown. At La Clairière Mère Julie had enacted a strange part. She hadtaken no part in anything that was done, but had established herself inthe chamber allotted to her, and taken the best bed in it, where shekept her place night and day, making the others wait upon her. She hadalways expressed a great devotion for St. Jean; and the Sisters of theHospital had been very kind to her, and also to her _vaurien_ of a son, who was indeed, in some manner, the occasion of all our troubles--beingthe first who complained of the opening of the chapel into the chiefward, which was closed up by the administration, and thus became, as Iand many others think, the cause of all the calamities that have comeupon us. It was her bed that was the centre of the great commotion wehad heard, and a dozen voices immediately began to explain to us as weentered. 'Mère Julie has had a dream. She has seen a vision, ' they said. It was a vision of angels in the most beautiful robes, all shining withgold and whiteness. 'The dress of the Holy Mother which she wears on the great _fêtes_ wasnothing to them, ' Mere Julie told us, when she had composed herself. Forall had run here and there at her first cry, and procured for her a_tisane_, and a cup of _bouillon_, and all that was good for an attackof the nerves, which was what it was at first supposed to be. 'Theirwings were like the wings of the great peacock on the terrace, but alsolike those of eagles. And each one had a collar of beautiful jewelsabout his neck, and robes whiter than those of any bride. ' This was thedescription she gave: and to see the women how they listened, head abovehead, a cloud of eager faces, all full of awe and attention! The angelshad promised her that they would come again, when we had bound ourselvesto observe all the functions of the Church, and when all theseMessieurs had been converted, and made their submission--to lead us backgloriously to Semur. There was a great tumult in the chamber, and allcried out that they were convinced, that they were ready to promise. Allexcept Madame Martin, who stood and looked at them with a look whichsurprised me, which was of pity rather than sympathy. As there was noone else to speak, I took the word, being the mother of the presentMaire, and wife of the last, and in part mistress of the house. HadAgnès spoken I would have yielded to her, but as she was silent I tookmy right. 'Mère Julie, ' I said, 'and mes bonnes femmes, my friends, knowyou that it is the middle of the night, the hour at which we must restif we are to be able to do the work that is needful, which the _bonDieu_ has laid upon us? It is not from us--my daughter and myself--who, it is well known, have followed all the functions of the Church, thatyou will meet with an opposition to your promise. But what I desire isthat you should calm yourselves, that you should retire and rest tillthe time of work, husbanding your strength, since we know not what claimmay be made upon it. The holy angels, ' I said, 'will comprehend, or ifnot they, then the _bon Dieu_, who understands everything. ' But it was with difficulty that I could induce them to listen to me, todo that which was reasonable. When, however, we had quieted theagitation, and persuaded the good women to repose themselves, it was nolonger possible for me to rest. I promised to myself a little moment ofquiet, for my heart longed to be alone. I stole out as quietly as Imight, not to disturb any one, and sat down upon the bench outside thedoor. It was still a kind of half-dark, nothing visible, so that if anyone should gaze and gaze down the valley, it was not possible to seewhat was there: and I was glad that it was not possible, for my verysoul was tired. I sat down and leant my back upon the wall of ourhouse, and opened my lips to draw in the air of the morning. How stillit was! the very birds not yet begun to rustle and stir in the bushes;the night air hushed, and scarcely the first faint tint of bluebeginning to steal into the darkness. When I had sat there a little, closing my eyes, lo, tears began to steal into them like rain when therehas been a fever of heat. I have wept in my time many tears, but thetime of weeping is over with me, and through all these miseries I hadshed none. Now they came without asking, like a benediction refreshingmy eyes. Just then I felt a soft pressure upon my shoulder, and therewas Agnès coming close, putting her shoulder to mine, as was her way, that we might support each other. 'You weep, ma mère, ' she said. 'I think it is one of the angels Mère Julie has seen, ' said I. 'It is arefreshment--a blessing; my eyes were dry with weariness. ' 'Mother, ' said Madame Martin, 'do you think it is angels with wingslike peacocks and jewelled collars that our Father sends to us? Ah, notso--one of those whom we love has touched your dear eyes, ' and with thatshe kissed me upon my eyes, taking me in her arms. My heart is sometimeshard to my son's wife, but not always--not with my will, God knows! Herkiss was soft as the touch of any angel could be. 'God bless thee, my child, ' I said. 'Thanks, thanks, ma mère!' she cried. 'Now I am resolved; now will I goand speak to Martin--of something in my heart. ' 'What will you do, my child?' I said, for as the light increased I couldsee the meaning in her face, and that it was wrought up for some greatthing. 'Beware, Agnès; risk not my son's happiness by risking thyself;thou art more to Martin than all the world beside. ' 'He loves thee dearly, mother, ' she said. My heart was comforted. I wasable to remember that I too had had my day. 'He loves his mother, thankGod, but not as he loves thee. Beware, _ma fille_. If you risk my son'shappiness, neither will I forgive you. ' She smiled upon me, and kissedmy hands. 'I will go and take him his food and some linen, and carry him your loveand mine. ' '_You_ will go, and carry one of those heavy baskets with the others!' 'Mother, ' cried Agnès, 'now you shame me that I have never done itbefore. ' What could I say? Those whose turn it was were preparing their burdensto set out. She had her little packet made up, besides, of our coolwhite linen, which I knew would be so grateful to my son. I went withher to the turn of the road, helping her with her basket; but my limbstrembled, what with the long continuance of the trial, what with theagitation of the night. It was but just daylight when they went away, disappearing down the long slope of the road that led to Semur. I wentback to the bench at the door, and there I sat down and thought. Assuredly it was wrong to close up the chapel, to deprive the sick ofthe benefit of the holy mass. But yet I could not but reflect that the_bon Dieu_ had suffered still more great scandals to take place withoutsuch a punishment. When, however, I reflected on all that has been doneby those who have no cares of this world as we have, but are brides ofChrist, and upon all they resign by their dedication, and the claim theyhave to be furthered, not hindered, in their holy work: and when Ibethought myself how many and great are the powers of evil, and that, save in us poor women who can do so little, the Church has few friends:then it came back to me how heinous was the offence that had beencommitted, and that it might well be that the saints out of heavenshould return to earth to take the part and avenge the cause of theweak. My husband would have been the first to do it, had he seen withmy eyes; but though in the flesh he did not do so, is it to be doubtedthat in heaven their eyes are enlightened--those who have been subjectedto the cleansing fires and have ascended into final bliss? This allbecame clear to me as I sat and pondered, while the morning light grewaround me, and the sun rose and shed his first rays, which are asprecious gold, on the summits of the mountains--for at La Clairière weare nearer the mountains than at Semur. The house was more still than usual, and all slept to a later hourbecause of the agitation of the past night. I had been seated, like oldsister Mariette, with my eyes turned rather towards the hills than tothe valley, being so deep in my thoughts that I did not look, as it wasour constant wont to look, if any change had happened over Semur. Thusblessings come unawares when we are not looking for them. Suddenly Ilifted my eyes--but not with expectation--languidly, as one lookswithout thought. Then it was that I gave that great cry which broughtall crowding to the windows, to the gardens, to every spot from whencethat blessed sight was visible; for there before us, piercing throughthe clouds, were the beautiful towers of Semur, the Cathedral with allits pinnacles, that are as if they were carved out of foam, and thesolid tower of St. Lambert, and the others, every one. They told meafter that I flew, though I am past running, to the farmyard to call allthe labourers and servants of the farm, bidding them prepare everycarriage and waggon, and even the _charrettes_, to carry back thechildren, and those who could not walk to the city. 'The men will be wild with privation and trouble, ' I said to myself;'they will want the sight of their little children, the comfort of theirwives. ' I did not wait to reason nor to ask myself if I did well; and my son hastold me since that he scarcely was more thankful for our greatdeliverance than, just when the crowd of gaunt and weary men returnedinto Semur, and there was a moment when excitement and joy were at theirhighest, and danger possible, to hear the roll of the heavy farmwaggons, and to see me arrive, with all the little ones and theirmothers, like a new army, to take possession of their homes once more. M. LE MAIRE CONCLUDES HIS RECORD. The narratives which I have collected from the different eye-witnessesduring the time of my own absence, will show how everything passed whileI, with M. Le Curé, was recovering possession of our city. Many havereported to me verbally the occurrences of the last half-hour before myreturn; and in their accounts there are naturally discrepancies, owingto their different points of view and different ways of regarding thesubject. But all are agreed that a strange and universal slumber hadseized upon all. M. De Bois-Sombre even admits that he, too, wasovercome by this influence. They slept while we were performing ourdangerous and solemn duty in Semur. But when the Cathedral bells beganto ring, with one impulse all awoke; and starting from the places wherethey lay, from the shade of the trees and bushes and sheltering hollows, saw the cloud and the mist and the darkness which had enveloped Semursuddenly rise from the walls. It floated up into the higher air beforetheir eyes, then was caught and carried away, and flung about intoshreds upon the sky by a strong wind, of which down below no influencewas felt. They all gazed, not able to get their breath, speechless, beside themselves with joy, and saw the walls reappear, and the roofs ofthe houses, and our glorious Cathedral against the blue sky. They stoodfor a moment spell-bound. M. De Bois-Sombre informs me that he wasafraid of a wild rush into the city, and himself hastened to the frontto lead and restrain it; when suddenly a great cry rang through the air, and some one was seen to fall across the high road, straight in front ofthe Porte St. Lambert. M. De Bois-Sombre was at once aware who it was, for he himself had watched Lecamus taking his place at the feet of mywife, who awaited my return there. This checked the people in theirfirst rush towards their homes; and when it was seen that Madame Dupinhad also sunk down fainting on the ground after her more than humanexertions for the comfort of all, there was but one impulse oftenderness and pity. When I reached the gate on my return, I found mywife lying there in all the pallor of death, and for a moment my heartstood still with sudden terror. What mattered Semur to me, if it hadcost me my Agnès? or how could I think of Lecamus or any other, whileshe lay between life and death? I had her carried back to our own house. She was the first to re-enter Semur; and after a time, thanks be to God, she came back to herself. But Paul Lecamus was a dead man. No need tocarry him in, to attempt unavailing cares. 'He has gone, that one; hehas marched with the others, ' said the old doctor, who had served in hisday, and sometimes would use the language of the camp. He cast but oneglance at him, and laid his hand upon his heart in passing. 'Cover hisface, ' was all he said. It is possible that this check was good for the restraint of the crowd. It moderated the rush with which they returned to their homes. The sightof the motionless figures stretched out by the side of the way overawedthem. Perhaps it may seem strange, to any one who has known what hadoccurred, that the state of the city should have given me great anxietythe first night of our return. The withdrawal of the oppression and awewhich had been on the men, the return of everything to its naturalstate, the sight of their houses unchanged, so that the brain turnedround of these common people, who seldom reflect upon anything, and theyalready began to ask themselves was it all a delusion--added to theexhaustion of their physical condition, and the natural desire for easeand pleasure after the long strain upon all their faculties--produced anexcitement which might have led to very disastrous consequences. Fortunately I had foreseen this. I have always been considered topossess great knowledge of human nature, and this has been matured byrecent events. I sent off messengers instantly to bring home the womenand children, and called around me the men in whom I could most trust. Though I need not say that the excitement and suffering of the pastthree days had told not less upon myself than upon others, I abandonedall idea of rest. The first thing that I did, aided by my respectablefellow-townsmen, was to take possession of all _cabarets_ andwine-shops, allowing indeed the proprietors to return, but preventingall assemblages within them. We then established a patrol of respectablecitizens throughout the city, to preserve the public peace. Icalculated, with great anxiety, how many hours it would be before mymessengers could react: La Clairière, to bring back the women--for insuch a case the wives are the best guardians, and can exercise aninfluence more general and less suspected than that of the magistrates;but this was not to be hoped for for three or four hours at least. Judge, then, what was my joy and satisfaction when the sound of wheels(in itself a pleasant sound, for no wheels had been audible on thehigh-road since these events began) came briskly to us from thedistance; and looking out from the watch-tower over the Porte St. Lambert, I saw the strangest procession. The wine-carts and all the farmvehicles of La Clairière, and every kind of country waggon, were joltingalong the road, all in a tumult and babble of delicious voices; and fromunder the rude canopies and awnings and roofs of vine branches, made upto shield them from the sun, lo! there were the children like birds in anest, one little head peeping over the other. And the cries and songs, the laughter, and the shoutings! As they came along the air grew sweet, the world was made new. Many of us, who had borne all the terrors andsufferings of the past without fainting, now felt their strength failthem. Some broke out into tears, interrupted with laughter. Some calledout aloud the names of their little ones. We went out to meet them, every man there present, myself at the head. And I will not deny that asensation of pride came over me when I saw my mother stand up in thefirst waggon, with all those happy ones fluttering around her. 'My son, 'she said, 'I have discharged the trust that was given me. I bring theeback the blessing of God. ' 'And God bless thee, my mother!' I cried. Theother men, who were fathers, like me, came round me, crowding to kissher hand. It is not among the women of my family that you will findthose who abandon their duties. And then to lift them down in armfuls, those flowers of paradise, allfresh with the air of the fields, all joyous like the birds! We put themdown by twos and threes, some of us sobbing with joy. And to see themdispersing hand in hand, running here and there, each to its home, carrying peace, and love, and gladness, through the streets--that wasenough to make the most serious smile. No fear was in them, or care. Every haggard man they met--some of them feverish, restless, beginningto think of riot and pleasure after forced abstinence--there was a newshout, a rush of little feet, a shower of soft kisses. The women werefollowing after, some packed into the carts and waggons, pale and worn, yet happy; some walking behind in groups; the more strong, or the moreeager, in advance, and a long line of stragglers behind. There wasanxiety in their faces, mingled with their joy. How did they know whatthey might find in the houses from which they had been shut out? Andmany felt, like me, that in the very return, in the relief, there wasdanger. But the children feared nothing; they filled the streets withtheir dear voices, and happiness came back with them. When I felt mylittle Jean's cheek against mine, then for the first time did I know howmuch anguish I had suffered--how terrible was parting, and how sweet waslife. But strength and prudence melt away when one indulges one's self, even in one's dearest affections. I had to call my guardians together, to put mastery upon myself, that a just vigilance might not be relaxed. M. De Bois-Sombre, though less anxious than myself, and disposed tobelieve (being a soldier) that a little license would do no harm, yetstood by me; and, thanks to our precautions, all went well. Before night three parts of the population had returned to Semur, andthe houses were all lighted up as for a great festival. The Cathedralstood open--even the great west doors, which are only opened on greatoccasions--with a glow of tapers gleaming out on every side. As I stoodin the twilight watching, and glad at heart to think that all was goingwell, my mother and my wife--still pale, but now recovered from herfainting and weakness--came out into the great square, leading my littleJean. They were on their way to the Cathedral, to thank God for theirreturn. They looked at me, but did not ask me to go with them, thosedear women; they respected my opinions, as I had always respectedtheirs. But this silence moved me more than words; there came into myheart a sudden inspiration. I was still in my scarf of office, which hadbeen, I say it without vanity, the standard of authority and protectionduring all our trouble; and thus marked out as representative of all, Iuncovered myself, after the ladies of my family had passed, and, withoutjoining them, silently followed with a slow and solemn step. Asuggestion, a look, is enough for my countrymen; those who were in thePlace with me perceived in a moment what I meant. One by one theyuncovered, they put themselves behind me. Thus we made such a processionas had never been seen in Semur. We were gaunt and worn with watchingand anxiety, which only added to the solemn effect. Those who werealready in the Cathedral, and especially M. Le Curé, informed meafterwards that the tramp of our male feet as we came up the great stepsgave to all a thrill of expectation and awe. It was at the moment of theexposition of the Sacrament that we entered. Instinctively, in a moment, all understood--a thing which could happen nowhere but in France, whereintelligence is swift as the breath on our lips. Those who were alreadythere yielded their places to us, most of the women rising up, making asit were a ring round us, the tears running down their faces. When theSacrament was replaced upon the altar, M. Le Curé, perceiving ourmeaning, began at once in his noble voice to intone the _Te Deum_. Rejecting all other music, he adopted the plain song in which all couldjoin, and with one voice, every man in unison with his brother, we sangwith him. The great Cathedral walls seemed to throb with the sound thatrolled upward, _mâle_ and deep, as no song has ever risen from Semur inthe memory of man. The women stood up around us, and wept and sobbedwith pride and joy. When this wonderful moment was over, and all thepeople poured forth out of the Cathedral walls into the soft evening, with stars shining above, and all the friendly lights below, there wassuch a tumult of emotion and gladness as I have never seen before. Manyof the poor women surrounded me, kissed my hand notwithstanding myresistance, and called upon God to bless me; while some of the olderpersons made remarks full of justice and feeling. 'The _bon Dieu_ is not used to such singing, ' one of them cried, her oldeyes streaming with tears. 'It must have surprised the saints up inheaven!' 'It will bring a blessing, ' cried another. 'It is not like our littlevoices, that perhaps only reach half-way. ' This was figurative language, yet it was impossible to doubt there wasmuch truth in it. Such a submission of our intellects, as I felt indetermining to make it, must have been pleasing to heaven. The women, they are always praying; but when we thus presented ourselves to givethanks, it meant something, a real homage; and with a feeling ofsolemnity we separated, aware that we had contented both earth andheaven. Next morning there was a great function in the Cathedral, at which thewhole city assisted. Those who could not get admittance crowded upon thesteps, and knelt half way across the Place. It was an occasion longremembered in Semur, though I have heard many say not in itself soimpressive as the _Te Deum_ on the evening of our return. After this wereturned to our occupations, and life was resumed under its formerconditions in our city. It might be supposed, however, that the place in which events soextraordinary had happened would never again be as it was before. Had Inot been myself so closely involved, it would have appeared to mecertain, that the streets, trod once by such inhabitants as those whofor three nights and days abode within Semur, would have always retainedsome trace of their presence; that life there would have been moresolemn than in other places; and that those families for whose advantagethe dead had risen out of their graves, would have henceforward carriedabout with them some sign of that interposition. It will seem almostincredible when I now add that nothing of this kind has happened atSemur. The wonderful manifestation which interrupted our existence haspassed absolutely as if it had never been. We had not been twelve hoursin our houses ere we had forgotten, or practically forgotten, ourexpulsion from them. Even myself, to whom everything was so vividlybrought home, I have to enter my wife's room to put aside the curtainfrom little Marie's picture, and to see and touch the olive branchwhich is there, before I can recall to myself anything that resemblesthe feeling with which I re-entered that sanctuary. My grandfather'sbureau still stands in the middle of my library, where I found it on myreturn; but I have got used to it, and it no longer affects me. Everything is as it was; and I cannot persuade myself that, for a time, I and mine were shut out, and our places taken by those who neither eatnor drink, and whose life is invisible to our eyes. Everything, I say, is as it was--every thing goes on as if it would endure for ever. Weknow this cannot be, yet it does not move us. Why, then, should theother move us? A little time, we are aware, and we, too, shall be asthey are--as shadows, and unseen. But neither has the one changed us, and neither does the other. There was, for some time, a greater respectshown to religion in Semur, and a more devout attendance at the sacredfunctions; but I regret to say this did not continue. Even in my owncase--I say it with sorrow--it did not continue. M. Le Curé is anadmirable person. I know no more excellent ecclesiastic. He isindefatigable in the performance of his spiritual duties; and he has, besides, a noble and upright soul. Since the days when we suffered andlaboured together, he has been to me as a brother. Still, it isundeniable that he makes calls upon our credulity, which a man obeyswith reluctance. There are ways of surmounting this; as I see in Agnèsfor one, and in M. De Bois-Sombre for another. My wife does notquestion, she believes much; and in respect to that which she cannotacquiesce in, she is silent. 'There are many things I hear you talk of, Martin, which are strange to me, ' she says, 'of myself I cannot believein them; but I do not oppose, since it is possible you may have reasonto know better than I; and so with some things that we hear from M. LeCuré. ' This is how she explains herself--but she is a woman. It is amatter of grace to yield to our better judgment. M. De Bois-Sombre hasanother way. '_Ma foi_, ' he says, 'I have not the time for all yourdelicacies, my good people; I have come to see that these things are forthe advantage of the world, and it is not my business to explain them. If M. Le Curé attempted to criticise me in military matters, or thee, myexcellent Martin, in affairs of business, or in the culture of yourvines, I should think him not a wise man; and in like manner, faith andreligion, these are his concern. ' Felix de Bois Sombre is an excellentfellow; but he smells a little of the _mousquetaire_. I, who am neithera soldier nor a woman, I have hesitations. Nevertheless, so long as I amMaire of Semur, nothing less than the most absolute respect shall everbe shown to all truly religious persons, with whom it is my earnestdesire to remain in sympathy and fraternity, so far as that may be. It seemed, however, a little while ago as if my tenure of this officewould not be long, notwithstanding the services which I am acknowledged, on every hand, to have done to my fellow-townsmen. It will be rememberedthat when M. Le Curé and myself found Semur empty, we heard a voice ofcomplaining from the hospital of St. Jean, and found a sick man who hadbeen left there, and who grumbled against the Sisters, and accused themof neglecting him, but remained altogether unaware, in the meantime, ofwhat had happened in the city. Will it be believed that after a timethis fellow was put faith in as a seer, who had heard and beheld manythings of which we were all ignorant? It must be said that, in themeantime, there had been a little excitement in the town on the subjectof the chapel in the hospital, to which repeated reference has alreadybeen made. It was insisted on behalf of these ladies that a promise hadbeen given, taking, indeed, the form of a vow, that, as soon as we wereagain in possession of Semur, their full privileges should be restoredto them. Their advocates even went so far as to send to me a deputationof those who had been nursed in the hospital, the leader of which wasJacques Richard, who since he has been, as he says, 'converted, ' thrustshimself to the front of every movement. 'Permit me to speak, M. Le Maire, ' he said; 'me, who was one of those somisguided as to complain, before the great lesson we have all received. The mass did not disturb any sick person who was of right dispositions. I was then a very bad subject, indeed--as, alas! M. Le Maire too wellknows. It annoyed me only as all pious observances annoyed me. I am now, thank heaven, of a very different way of thinking----' But I would not listen to the fellow. When he was a _mauvais sujet_ hewas less abhorrent to me than now. The men were aware that when I pronounced myself so distinctly on anysubject, there was nothing more to be said, for, though gentle as alamb and open to all reasonable arguments, I am capable of making themost obstinate stand for principle; and to yield to popularsuperstition, is that worthy of a man who has been instructed? At thesame time it raised a great anger in my mind that all that should bethought of was a thing so trivial. That they should have giventhemselves, soul and body, for a little money; that they should havescoffed at all that was noble and generous, both in religion and inearthly things; all that was nothing to them. And now they would insultthe great God Himself by believing that all He cared for was a littlemass in a convent chapel. What desecration! What debasement! When I wentto M. Le Curé, he smiled at my vehemence. There was pain in his smile, and it might be indignation; but he was not furious like me. 'They will conquer you, my friend, ' he said. 'Never, ' I cried. 'Before I might have yielded. But to tell me thegates of death have been rolled back, and Heaven revealed, and the greatGod stooped down from Heaven, in order that mass should be saidaccording to the wishes of the community in the midst of the sick wards!They will never make me believe this, if I were to die for it. ' 'Nevertheless, they will conquer, ' M. Le Curé said. It angered me that he should say so. My heart was sore as if my friendhad forsaken me. And then it was that the worst step was taken in thiscrusade of false religion. It was from my mother that I heard of itfirst. One day she came home in great excitement, saying that now indeeda real light was to be shed upon all that had happened to us. 'It appears, ' she said, 'that Pierre Plastron was in the hospital allthe time, and heard and saw many wonderful things. Sister Genevieve hasjust told me. It is wonderful beyond anything you could believe. He hasspoken with our holy patron himself, St. Lambert, and has receivedinstructions for a pilgrimage--' 'Pierre Plastron!' I cried; 'Pierre Plastron saw nothing, ma mère. Hewas not even aware that anything remarkable had occurred. He complainedto us of the Sisters that they neglected him; he knew nothing more. ' 'My son, ' she said, looking upon me with reproving eyes, 'what have thegood Sisters done to thee? Why is it that you look so unfavourably uponeverything that comes from the community of St. Jean?' 'What have I to do with the community?' I cried--'when I tell thee, Maman, that this Pierre Plastron knows nothing! I heard it from thefellow's own lips, and M. Le Curé was present and heard him too. He hadseen nothing, he knew nothing. Inquire of M. Le Curé, if you have doubtsof me. ' 'I do not doubt you, Martin, ' said my mother, with severity, 'when youare not biassed by prejudice. And, as for M. Le Curé, it is well knownthat the clergy are often jealous of the good Sisters, when they are notunder their own control. ' Such was the injustice with which we were treated. And next day nothingwas talked of but the revelation of Pierre Plastron. What he had seenand what he had heard was wonderful. All the saints had come and talkedwith him, and told him what he was to say to his townsmen. They told himexactly how everything had happened: how St. Jean himself had interferedon behalf of the Sisters, and how, if we were not more attentive to theduties of religion, certain among us would be bound hand and foot andcast into the jaws of hell. That I was one, nay the chief, of thesedenounced persons, no one could have any doubt. This exasperated me; andas soon as I knew that this folly had been printed and was in everyhouse, I hastened to M. Le Curé, and entreated him in his next Sunday'ssermon to tell the true story of Pierre Plastron, and reveal theimposture. But M. Le Curé shook his head. 'It will do no good, ' he said. 'But how no good?' said I. 'What good are we looking for? These arelies, nothing but lies. Either he has deceived the poor ladies basely, or they themselves--but this is what I cannot believe. ' 'Dear friend, ' he said, 'compose thyself. Have you never discovered yethow strong is self-delusion? There will be no lying of which they areaware. Figure to yourself what a stimulus to the imagination to knowthat he was here, actually here. Even I--it suggests a hundred things tome. The Sisters will have said to him (meaning no evil, nay meaning theedification of the people), "But, Pierre, reflect! You must have seenthis and that. Recall thy recollections a little. " And by degrees Pierrewill have found out that he remembered--more than could have beenhoped. ' '_Mon Dieu_!' I cried, out of patience, 'and you know all this, yet youwill not tell them the truth--the very truth. ' 'To what good?' he said. Perhaps M. Le Curé was right: but, for my part, had I stood up in that pulpit, I should have contradicted their lies andgiven no quarter. This, indeed, was what I did both in my private andpublic capacity; but the people, though they loved me, did not believeme. They said, 'The best men have their prejudices. M. Le Maire is anexcellent man; but what will you? He is but human after all. ' M. Le Curé and I said no more to each other on this subject. He was abrave man, yet here perhaps he was not quite brave. And the effect ofPierre Plastron's revelations in other quarters was to turn the awe thathad been in many minds into mockery and laughter. '_Ma foi_, ' said Félixde Bois-Sombre, 'Monseigneur St. Lambert has bad taste, mon ami Martin, to choose Pierre Plastron for his confidant when he might have hadthee. ' 'M. De Bois-Sombre does ill to laugh, ' said my mother (even mymother! she was not on my side), 'when it is known that the foolish areoften chosen to confound the wise. ' But Agnès, my wife, it was she whogave me the best consolation. She turned to me with the tears in herbeautiful eyes. 'Mon ami, ' she said, 'let Monseigneur St. Lambert say what he will. Heis not God that we should put him above all. There were other saintswith other thoughts that came for thee and for me!' All this contradiction was over when Agnès and I together took ourflowers on the _jour des morts_ to the graves we love. Glimmering amongthe rest was a new cross which I had not seen before. This was theinscription upon it:-- À PAUL LECAMUS PARTI LE 20 JUILLET, 1875 AVEC LES BIEN-AIMÉS On it was wrought in the marble a little branch of olive. I turned tolook at my wife as she laid underneath this cross a handful of violets. She gave me her hand still fragrant with the flowers. There was none ofhis family left to put up for him any token of human remembrance. Whobut she should have done it, who had helped him to join that company andarmy of the beloved? 'This was our brother, ' she said; 'he will tell myMarie what use I made of her olive leaves. ' THE END