heart of that resplendence, a feminine form which stirred before my eyes in inaccessible forbearance.  Long did I watch with shaking knees that window dawning upon space, as the shepherd watches the rising of Venus.  That evening, when I had come in and was alone for a moment—­Marie was busy below in the kitchen—­alone in our unattractive room, I retired to the starry window, beset by immense thoughts.  These spaces, these separations, these incalculable durations—­they all reduce us to dust, they all have a sort of fearful splendor from which we seek defense in our hiding.

* * * * * *

I have not retained a definite recollection of a period of jealousy from which I suffered for a year.  From certain facts, certain profound changes of mood in Marie, it seemed to me that there was some one between her and me.  But beyond vague symptoms and these terrible reflections on her, I never knew anything.  The truth, everywhere around me, was only a phantom of truth.  I experienced acute internal wounds of humiliation and shame, of rebellion!  I struggled feebly, as well as I could, against a mystery too great for me, and then my suspicions wore themselves out.  I fled from the nightmare, and by a strong effort I forgot it.  Perhaps my imputations had no basis; but it is curious how one ends in only believing what one wants to believe.

* * * * * *

Something which had been plotting a long while among the Socialist extremists suddenly produced a stoppage of work at the factory, and this was followed by demonstrations which rolled through the terrified town.  Everywhere the shutters went up.  The business people blotted out their shops, and the town looked like a tragic Sunday.

“It’s a revolution!” said Marie to me, turning pale, as Benoit cried to us from the step of our porch the news that the workmen were marching.  “How does it come about that you knew nothing at the factory?”

An hour later we learned that a delegation composed of the most dangerous ringleaders was preceding the army of demonstrators, commissioned to extort outrageous advantages, with threats, from Messrs. Gozlan.

Our quarter had a loose and dejected look.  People went furtively, seeking news, and doors half opened regretfully.  Here and there groups formed and lamented in undertones the public authority’s lack of foresight, the insufficient measures for preserving order.

Rumors were peddled about on the progress of the demonstration.

“They’re crossing the river.”

“They’re at the Calvary cross-roads.”

“It’s a march against the castle!”

I went into Fontan’s.  He was not there, and some men were talking in the twilight of the closed shutters.

“The Baroness is in a dreadful way.  She’s seen a dark mass in the distance.  Some young men of the aristocracy have armed themselves and are guarding her.  She says it’s another Jacquerie[1] rising!”