Sitting quietly in her tidy kitchen near the open window, after the Cardinal’s departure, Madame Patoux knitted busily, her thoughts flying faster than her glittering needles.  A certain vague impression of solemnity had been left on her mind by the events of the morning,—­she could not quite reason out the why or the wherefore of it—­and yet—­it was a fact that after Monseigneur had gone, she had, when entering the rooms he had vacated, felt a singular sense of awe.

“Almost as if one were in the Cathedral at the ringing of the ‘Sanctus’” she murmured under her breath, glancing about timidly at the plain furniture and bare walls.  And after putting everything in order, she closed and locked the doors jealously, with a determination that she would not let those rooms to the first chance-comer for a long time,—­no, though she might have to lose money by her refusal.  And now, as she sat actively employed in knitting socks for Henri, whom she could see sitting with his sister outside on the bench under the house porch, reading or pretending to read, she began to wonder what opinion those two young miscreants had formed in their minds respecting the Cardinal, and also what they thought of the boy who had been taken so suddenly under his protection.  She was almost tempted to call Henri and ask him a few questions on the subject,—­but she had learnt to value peace and quietness when she could secure those rare blessings at the hands of her children, and when they were employed with a book and visibly out of mischief she thought it wisest to leave them alone.  And so she left them in the present instance, pushing her window open as she sat and knitted, for the air was warm and balmy, and the long rays of sunshine streaming across the square were of the hue of a ripe nectarine just gathered, and the delicate mouldings and traceries and statues on the porch of the Cathedral appeared like so many twinings of grey gossamer web glistening in a haze of gold.  Now and then neighbours passed, and nodded or called a greeting which Madame Patoux answered cheerily, still knitting vivaciously; and the long shafts of sunshine grew longer, casting deeper shadows as the quarters chimed.  All at once there was a cry,—­a woman’s figure came rushing precipitately across the square,—­Madame Patoux sprang up, and her children ran out of the porch as they recognised Martine Doucet.

“Martine!  Martine!  What is it!” they all cried simultaneously.

Martine, breathless, dishevelled, laughing and sobbing alternately, tried to speak, but could only gesticulate and throw up her hands in a kind of ecstasy, but whether of despair or joy could not be guessed.  Madame Patoux shook her by the arm.

“Martine!—­speak—­what is it!”

Martine made a violent effort.

“Fabien!—­Fabien—­” she gasped, flinging herself to and fro and still sobbing and laughing.

“Mon Dieu!” cried Madame in horror.  “Is the child dead?”