watch suspended to its usual hook, and my pocketbook, which I had taken from my pocket on the previous night.  I took up also the light overcoat which I had worn when I made my rounds through the city on the first night of the darkness.  ‘Now,’ I said, ‘Agnes, I am ready.’  I did not speak to her of where we were going, nor she to me.  Little Jean and my mother met us at the door.  Nor did she say anything, contrary to her custom; and the child was quite quiet.  We went downstairs together without saying a word.  The servants, who were all astir, followed us.  I cannot give any description of the feelings that were in my mind.  I had not any feelings.  I was only hurried out, hastened by something which I could not define—­a sense that I must go; and perhaps I was too much astonished to do anything but yield.  It seemed, however, to be no force or fear that was moving me, but a desire of my own; though I could not tell how it was, or why I should be so anxious to get away.  All the servants, trooping after me, had the same look in their faces; they were anxious to be gone—­it seemed their business to go—­there was no question, no consultation.  And when we came out into the street, we encountered a stream of processions similar to our own.  The children went quite steadily by the side of their parents.  Little Jean, for example, on an ordinary occasion would have broken away—­would have run to his comrades of the Bois-Sombre family, and they to him.  But no; the little ones, like ourselves, walked along quite gravely.  They asked no questions, neither did we ask any questions of each other, as, ’Where are 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 little Jean by the hand, came to the other side.  The servants followed.  The street was quite full of people; but there was no noise except the sound of their footsteps.  All of us turned the same way—­turned towards the gates—­and though I was not conscious of any feeling except the wish to go on, there were one or two things which took a place in my memory.  The first was, that my wife suddenly turned round as we were coming out of the porte-cochere, her face lighting up.  I need not say to any one who knows Madame Dupin de la Clairiere, that she is a beautiful woman.  Without any partiality on my part, it would be impossible for me to ignore this fact:  for it is perfectly well known and acknowledged by all.  She was pale this morning—­a little paler than usual; and her blue eyes enlarged, with a serious look, which they always retain more or less.  But suddenly, as we went out of the door, her face lighted up, her eyes were suffused with tears—­with light—­how can I tell what it was?—­they became like the eyes of angels.  A little cry came from her parted lips—­she lingered a moment, stooping down as if talking to some one less tall than herself, then came after us, with that light still in her face.