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 I observed was M. le Cure, who, as I have already indicated, is a man of great composure of manner and presence of mind, coming out of the door of the Presbytery.  There was a strange look on his face of astonishment and reluctance.  He walked very slowly, not as we did, but with a visible desire to turn back, folding his arms across his breast, and holding himself as if against the wind, resisting some gale which blew behind him, and forced him on.  We felt no gale; but there seemed to be a strange wind blowing along the side of the street on which M. le Cure was.  And there was an air of concealed surprise in his face—­great astonishment, but a determination not to let any one see that he was astonished, or that the situation was strange to him.  And I cannot tell how it was, but I, too, though pre-occupied, was surprised to perceive that M. le Cure was going with the rest of us, though I could not have told why.

Behind M. le Cure there was another whom I remarked.  This was Jacques Richard, he of whom I have already spoken.  He was like a figure I have seen 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 he was being forced along against his will.  Every limb was in resistance; his feet were planted widely yet firmly upon the pavement; one of his arms was stretched out as if to lay hold on anything that should come within reach.  M. le Cure resisted passively; but Jacques resisted with passion, laying his back to the wind, and struggling not to be carried away.  Notwithstanding his resistance, however, this rough figure was driven along slowly, struggling at every step.  He did not make one movement that was not against his will, but still he was driven on.  On our side of the street all went, like ourselves, calmly.  My mother uttered now and then a low moan, but said nothing.  She clung to my arm, and walked on, hurrying a little, sometimes going quicker than I intended to go.  As for my wife, she accompanied us with her light step, which scarcely seemed to touch the ground, little Jean pattering by her side.  Our neighbours were all round us.  We streamed down, as in a long procession, to the Porte St. Lambert.  It was only when we got there that the strange character of the step we were all taking suddenly occurred to me.  It was still a kind of grey twilight, not yet day.  The bells of the Cathedral had begun to toll, which was very startling—­not ringing in their cheerful way, but tolling as if for a funeral; and no other sound was audible but the noise of footsteps, like an army making a silent march into an enemy’s country.  We had reached the gate when a sudden wondering came over me.  Why were we all going out of our houses in the wintry dusk to which our July days had turned?  I stopped, and turning round, was about to say something to the others, when