And there were many women like me at La Clairiere.  When we had done each piece of work we would look out with a kind of hope, then go back to find something else to do—­not looking at each other, not saying a word.  Happily there was a great deal to do.  And to see how some of the women, and those the most anxious, would work, never resting, going on from one thing to another, as if they were hungry for more and more!  Some did it with their mouths shut close, with their countenances fixed, not daring to pause or meet another’s eyes; but some, who were more patient, worked with a soft word, and sometimes a smile, and sometimes a tear; but ever working on.  Some of them were an example to us all.  In the morning, when we got up, some from beds, some from the floor,—­I insisted that all should lie down, by turns at least, for we could not make room for every one at the same hours,—­the very first thought of all was to hasten to the window, or, better, to the door.  Who could tell what might have happened while we slept?  For the first moment no one would speak,—­it was the moment of hope—­and then there would be a cry, a clasping of the hands, which told—­what we all knew.  The one of the women who touched my heart most was the wife of Riou of the octroi.  She had been almost rich for her condition in life, with a good house and a little servant whom she trained admirably, as I have had occasion to know.  Her husband and her son were both among those whom we had left under the walls of Semur; but she had three children with her at La Clairiere.  Madame Riou slept lightly, and so did I. Sometimes I heard her stir in the middle of the night, though so softly that no one woke.  We were in the same room, for it may be supposed that to keep a room to one’s self was not possible.  I did not stir, but lay and watched her as she went to the window, her figure visible against the pale dawning of the light, with an eager quick movement as of expectation—­then turning back with slower step and a sigh.  She was always full of hope.  As the days went on, there came to be a kind of communication between us.  We understood each other.  When one was occupied and the other free, that one of us who went out to the door to look across the valley where Semur was would look at the other as if to say, ‘I go.’  When it was Madame Riou who did this, I shook my head, and she gave me a smile which awoke at every repetition (though I knew it was vain) a faint expectation, a little hope.  When she came back, it was she who would shake her head, with her eyes full of tears.  ‘Did I not tell thee?’ I said, speaking to her as if she were my daughter.  ‘It will be for next time, Madame,’ she would say, and smile, yet put her apron to her eyes.  There were many who were like her, and there were those of whom I have spoken who were pleureuses, never hoping anything, doing little, bewailing themselves and their hard fate.  Some of them we employed to carry the provisions to Semur, and this amused them, though the heaviness of the baskets made again a complaint.