some packed into the carts and waggons, pale and worn, yet happy; some walking behind in groups; the more strong, or the more eager, in advance, and a long line of stragglers behind.  There was anxiety in their faces, mingled with their joy.  How did they know what they might find in the houses from which they had been shut out?  And many felt, like me, that in the very return, in the relief, there was danger.  But the children feared nothing; they filled the streets with their dear voices, and happiness came back with them.  When I felt my little Jean’s cheek against mine, then for the first time did I know how much anguish I had suffered—­how terrible was parting, and how sweet was life.  But strength and prudence melt away when one indulges one’s self, even in one’s dearest affections.  I had to call my guardians together, to put mastery upon myself, that a just vigilance might not be relaxed.  M. de Bois-Sombre, though less anxious than myself, and disposed to believe (being a soldier) that a little license would do no harm, yet stood by me; and, thanks to our precautions, all went well.

Before night three parts of the population had returned to Semur, and the houses were all lighted up as for a great festival.  The Cathedral stood open—­even the great west doors, which are only opened on great occasions—­with a glow of tapers gleaming out on every side.  As I stood in the twilight watching, and glad at heart to think that all was going well, my mother and my wife—­still pale, but now recovered from her fainting and weakness—­came out into the great square, leading my little Jean.  They were on their way to the Cathedral, to thank God for their return.  They looked at me, but did not ask me to go with them, those dear women; they respected my opinions, as I had always respected theirs.  But this silence moved me more than words; there came into my heart a sudden inspiration.  I was still in my scarf of office, which had been, I say it without vanity, the standard of authority and protection during all our trouble; and thus marked out as representative of all, I uncovered myself, after the ladies of my family had passed, and, without joining them, silently followed with a slow and solemn step.  A suggestion, a look, is enough for my countrymen; those who were in the Place with me perceived in a moment what I meant.  One by one they uncovered, they put themselves behind me.  Thus we made such a procession as had never been seen in Semur.  We were gaunt and worn with watching and anxiety, which only added to the solemn effect.  Those who were already in the Cathedral, and especially M. le Cure, informed me afterwards that the tramp of our male feet as we came up the great steps gave to all a thrill of expectation and awe.  It was at the moment of the exposition of the Sacrament that we entered.  Instinctively, in a moment, all understood—­a thing which could happen nowhere but in France, where intelligence is swift as the breath on our lips.  Those who