“Bah!” said Jacques, “this tepid rainy weather is better than intense cold that would freeze our vines and olives.”

And he tried to joke.  But he was as anxious as we were, without knowing why.  Babet had had bad dreams.  We listened to the account of her nightmare, laughing with our lips but sad at heart.

“This weather quite upsets one,” I said to cheer us all up.

“Yes, yes, it’s the weather,” Jacques hastened to add.  “I’ll put some vine branches on the fire.”

There was a bright flame which cast large sheets of light upon the walls.  The branches burnt with a cracking sound, leaving rosy ashes.  We had seated ourselves in front of the chimney; the air, outside, was tepid; but great drops of icy cold damp fell from the ceilings inside the farmhouse.  Babet had taken little Marie on her knees; she was talking to her in an undertone, amused at her childish chatter.

“Are you coming, father?” Jacques inquired of me.  “We are going to look at the cellars and lofts.”

I went out with him.  The harvests had been getting bad for some years past.  We were suffering great losses:  our vines and trees were caught by frost, whilst hail had chopped up our wheat and oats.  And I sometimes said that I was growing old, and that fortune, who is a woman, does not care for old men.  Jacques laughed, answering that he was young, and was going to court fortune.

I had reached the winter, the cold season.  I felt distinctly that all was withering around me.  At each pleasure that departed, I thought of uncle Lazare, who had died so calmly; and with fond remembrances of him, asked for strength.

Daylight had completely disappeared at three o’clock.  We went down into the common room.  Babet was sewing in the chimney corner, with her head bent over her work; and little Marie was seated on the ground, in front of the fire, gravely dressing a doll.  Jacques and I had placed ourselves at a mahogany writing-table, which had come to us from uncle Lazare, and were engaged in checking our accounts.

The window was as if blocked up; the fog, sticking to the panes of glass, formed a perfect wall of gloom.  Behind this wall stretched emptiness, the unknown.  A great noise, a loud roar, alone arose in the silence and spread through the obscurity.

We had dismissed the workpeople, keeping only our old woman-servant, Marguerite, with us.  When I raised my head and listened, it seemed to me that the farmhouse hung suspended in the middle of a chasm.  No human sound came from the outside.  I heard naught but the riot of the abyss.  Then I gazed at my wife and children, and experienced the cowardice of those old people who feel themselves too weak to protect those surrounding them against unknown peril.

The noise became harsher, and it seemed to us that there was a knocking at the door.  At the same instant, the horses in the stable began to neigh furiously, whilst the cattle lowed as if choking.  We had all risen, pale with anxiety, Jacques dashed to the door and threw it wide open.