This, then, was our attitude during the last hours of suspense, which were perhaps the most trying of all.  In the distance might be seen the little bands marching towards La Clairiere, on one side, and M. Barbou’s country-house (’La Corbeille des Raisins’) on the other.  It goes without saying that I did not want M. Barbou, but it was the first errand I could think of.  Towards the city, just where the darkness began that enveloped it, sat Madame Dupin.  That sainte femme was praying for her husband, who could doubt?  And under the trees, wherever they could find a favourable spot, my men lay down on the grass, and most of them fell asleep.  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 escort half-drunk to the tent, was not the most admirable companion for that poor visionary Lecamus, who had been accommodated there.  I roused myself, therefore, though unwillingly, to see whether these two, so discordant, could agree.

I met Lecamus at the tent-door.  He was coming out, very feeble and tottering, with that dazed look which (according to me) has always been characteristic of him.  He had a bundle of papers in his hand.  He had been setting in order his report of what had happened to him, to be submitted to the Maire.  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, with some irritation (which I forgave him), ’you have always been unfavourable to me.  I owe it to you that this unhappy drunkard has been sent to disturb me in my feebleness and the discharge of a public duty.’

‘My good Monsieur Lecamus,’ said I, ’you do my recollection too much honour.  The fact is, I had forgotten all about you and your public duty.  Accept my excuses.  Though indeed your supposition that I should have taken the trouble to annoy you, and your description of that good-for-nothing as an unhappy drunkard, are signs of intolerance which I should not have expected in a man so favoured.’

This speech, though too long, pleased me, for a man of this species, a revolutionary (are not all visionaries revolutionaries?) is always, when occasion offers, to be put down.  He disarmed me, however, by his humility.  He gave a look round.  ‘Where can I go?’ he said, and there was pathos in his voice.  At length he perceived Madame Dupin sitting almost motionless on the road.  ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘there is my place.’  The man, I could not but perceive, was very weak.  His eyes were twice their natural size, his face was the colour of ashes; through his whole frame there was a trembling; the papers shook in his hand.  A compunction seized my mind:  I regretted to have sent that piece of noise and folly to disturb a poor man so suffering and weak.  ‘Monsieur Lecamus,’ I said, ’forgive me.  I acknowledge that it was inconsiderate.  Remain here in comfort, and I will find for this unruly fellow another place of confinement.’