I saw my husband go:  perhaps, God knows, into danger, perhaps to some encounter such as might fill the world with awe—­to meet those who read the thought in your mind before it comes to your lips.  Well! there is no thought in Martin that is not noble and true.  Me, I have follies in my heart, every kind of folly; but he!—­the tears came in a flood to my eyes, but I would not shed them, as if I were weeping for fear and sorrow—­no—­but for happiness to know that falsehood was not in him.  My little Marie, a holy virgin, may look into her father’s heart—­I do not fear the test.

The sun came warm to my feet as I sat on the foundation of our city, but the projection of the tower gave me a little shade.  All about was a great peace.  I thought of the psalm which says, ’He will give it to His beloved sleeping’—­that is true; but always there are some who are used as instruments, who are not permitted to sleep.  The sounds that came from the people gradually ceased; they were all very quiet.  M. de Bois-Sombre I saw at a distance making his dispositions.  Then M. Paul Lecamus, whom I had long known, came up across the field, and seated himself close to me upon the road.  I have always had a great sympathy with him since the death of his wife; ever since there has been an abstraction in his eyes, a look of desolation.  He has no children or any one to bring him back to life.  Now, it seemed to me that he had the air of a man who was dying.  He had been in the city while all of us had been outside.

‘Monsieur Lecamus,’ I said, ’you look very ill, and this is not a place for you.  Could not I take you somewhere, where you might be more at your ease?’

‘It is true, Madame,’ he said, ’the road is hard, but the sunshine is sweet; and when I have finished what I am writing for M. le Maire, it will be over.  There will be no more need—­’

I did not understand what he meant.  I asked him to let me help him, but he shook his head.  His eyes were very hollow, in great caves, and his face was the colour of ashes.  Still he smiled.  ‘I thank you, Madame,’ he said, ’infinitely; everyone knows that Madame Dupin is kind; but when it is done, I shall be free.’

’I am sure, M. Lecamus, that my husband—­that M. le Maire—­would not wish you to trouble yourself, to be hurried—­’

‘No,’ he said, ’not he, but I. Who else could write what I have to write?  It must be done while it is day.’

’Then there is plenty of time, M. Lecamus.  All the best of the day is yet to come; it is still morning.  If you could but get as far as La Clairiere.  There we would nurse you—­restore you.’

He shook his head.  ‘You have enough on your hands at La Clairiere,’ he said; and then, leaning upon the stones, he began to write again with his pencil.  After a time, when he stopped, I ventured to ask—­’Monsieur Lecamus, is it, indeed, Those——­whom we have known, who are in Semur?’

He turned his dim eyes upon me.  ‘Does Madame Dupin,’ he said, ’require to ask?’