They found the Countess seated in a corner of the great chimney-piece in her room, which was almost as modestly furnished as similar apartments in Carentan; for she had given up the enjoyment of luxuries to which she had formerly been accustomed, for fear of offending the narrow prejudices of her guests, and she had made no changes in her house.  The floor was not even polished.  She had left the old somber hangings on the walls, had kept the old-fashioned country furniture, burned tallow candles, had fallen in with the ways of the place and adopted provincial life without flinching before its cast-iron narrowness, its most disagreeable hardships; but knowing that her guests would forgive her for any prodigality that conduced to their comfort, she left nothing undone where their personal enjoyment was concerned; her dinners, for instance, were excellent.  She even went so far as to affect avarice to recommend herself to these sordid natures; and had the ingenuity to make it appear that certain concessions to luxury had been made at the instance of others, to whom she had graciously yielded.

Toward seven o’clock that evening, therefore, the nearest approach to polite society that Carentan could boast was assembled in Mme. de Dey’s drawing-room, in a wide circle, about the fire.  The old merchant’s sympathetic glances sustained the mistress of the house through this ordeal; with wonderful strength of mind, she underwent the curious scrutiny of her guests, and bore with their trivial prosings.  Every time there was a knock at the door, at every sound of footsteps in the street, she hid her agitation by raising questions of absorbing interest to the countryside.  She led the conversation on to the burning topic of the quality of various ciders, and was so well seconded by her friend who shared her secret, that her guests almost forgot to watch her, and her face wore its wonted look; her self-possession was unshaken.  The public prosecutor and one of the judges of the Revolutionary Tribunal kept silence, however; noting the slightest change that flickered over her features, listening through the noisy talk to every sound in the house.  Several times they put awkward questions, which the Countess answered with wonderful presence of mind.  So brave is a mother’s heart!

Mme. de Dey had drawn her visitors into little groups, had made parties of whist, boston, or reversis, and sat talking with some of the young people; she seemed to be living completely in the present moment, and played her part like a consummate actress.  She elicited a suggestion of loto, and saying that no one else knew where to find the game, she left the room.

“My good Brigitte, I cannot breathe down there!” she cried, brushing away the tears that sprang to her eyes that glittered with fever, sorrow, and impatience.—­She had gone up to her son’s room, and was looking round it.  “He does not come,” she said.  “Here I can breathe and live.  A few minutes more, and he will be here, for he is alive, I am sure that he is alive! my heart tells me so.  Do you hear nothing, Brigitte?  Oh!  I would give the rest of my life to know whether he is still in prison or tramping across the country.  I would rather not think.”