While they were conversing, they reached the house of Mr. Desgranges, who began in this manner:—­

“One morning, three years since, I was walking on a large dry plain, which separates our village from that of Noiesemont, and which is all covered with mill-stones just taken from the quarry.  The process of blowing the rocks was still going on.  Suddenly a violent explosion was heard.  I looked.  At a distance of four or five hundred paces, a gray smoke, which seemed to come from a hole, rose from the ground.  Stones were then thrown up in the air, horrible cries were heard, and springing from this hole appeared a man, who began to run across the plain as if mad.  He shook his arms, screamed, fell down, got up again, disappeared in the great crevices of the plain, and appeared again.  The distance and the irregularity of his path prevented me from distinguishing anything clearly; but, at the height of his head, in the place of his face, I saw a great, red mark.  In alarm, I approached him, while from the other side of the plain, from Noiesemont, a troop of men and women were advancing, crying aloud.  I was the first to reach the poor creature.  His face was all one wound, and torrents of blood were streaming over his garments, which were all in rags.

“Scarcely had I taken hold of him, when a woman, followed by twenty peasants, approached, and threw herself before him.

“‘James, James, is it you?  I did not know you, James.’

“The poor man, without answering, struggled furiously in our hands.

“‘Ah!’ cried the woman, suddenly, and with a heart-rending voice, ‘it is he!’

“She had recognised a large silver pin, which fastened his shirt, which was covered with blood.

“It was indeed he, her husband, the father of three children, a poor labourer, who, in blasting a rock with powder, had received the explosion in his face, and was blind, mutilated, perhaps mortally wounded.

“He was carried home.  I was obliged to go away the same day, on a journey, and was absent a month.  Before my departure, I sent him our doctor, a man devoted to his profession as a country physician, and as learned as a city physician.  On my return—­

“‘Ah! well, doctor,’ said I, ‘the blind man?’

“’It is all over with him.  His wounds are healed, his head is doing well, he is only blind; but he will die; despair has seized him, and he will kill himself.  I can do nothing more for him, This is all,’ he said; ‘an internal inflammation is taking place.  He must die.’

“I hastened to the poor man.  I arrived.  I shall never forget the sight.  He was seated on a wooden stool, beside a hearth on. which there was no fire, his eyes covered with a white bandage.  On the floor an infant of three months was sleeping; a little girl of four years old was playing in the ashes; one, still older, was shivering opposite to her; and, in front of the fireplace, seated on the disordered bed, her arms hanging down, was the wife.  What was left to be imagined in this spectacle was more than met the eye.  One felt that for several hours, perhaps, no word had been spoken in this room.  The wife was doing nothing, and seemed to have no care to do anything.  They were not merely unfortunate, they seemed like condemned persons.  At the sound of my footsteps they arose, but without speaking.