make all the necessaryexplanations, there is often great difficulty. So many things will notfit into their places, they straggle like weary men on a march. Onecannot put them together, or satisfy one's self.
The sun was shining outside the walls when we re-entered Semur; but thefirst step we took was into a gloom as black as night, which did notre-assure us, it is unnecessary to say. A chill was in the air, of nightand mist. We shivered, not with the nerves only but with the cold. Andas all was dark, so all was still. I had expected to feel the presenceof those who were there, as I had felt the crowd of the invisible beforethey entered the city. But the air was vacant, there was nothing butdarkness and cold. We went on for a little way with a strange fervour ofexpectation. At each moment, at each step, it seemed to me that somegreat call must be made upon my self-possession and courage, some eventhappen; but there was nothing. All was calm, the houses on either sideof the way were open, all but the office of the _octroi_ which was blackas night with its closed door. M. le Cure has told me since that hebelieved Them to be there, though unseen. This idea, however, was not inmy mind. I had felt the unseen multitude; but here the air was free,there was no one interposing between us, who breathed as men, and thewalls that surrounded us. Just within the gate a lamp was burning,hanging to its rope over our heads; and the lights were in the houses asif some one had left them there; they threw a strange glimmer into thedarkness, flickering in the wind. By and by as we went on the gloomlessened, and by the time we had reached the Grande Rue, there was aclear steady pale twilight by which we saw everything, as by the lightof day.
We stood at the corner of the square and looked round. Although still Iheard the beating of my own pulses loudly working in my ears, yet it wasless terrible than at first. A city when asleep is wonderful to look on,but in all the closed doors and windows one feels the safety and reposesheltered there which no man can disturb; and the air has in it a senseof life, subdued, yet warm. But here all was open, and all deserted. Thehouse of the miser Grosgain was exposed from the highest to the lowest,but nobody was there to search for what was hidden. The hotel deBois-Sombre, with its great _porte-cochere,_ always so jealously closed;and my own house, which my mother and wife have always guarded socarefully, that no damp nor breath of night might enter, had every doorand window wide open. Desolation seemed seated in all these emptyplaces. I feared to go into my own dwelling. It seemed to me as if thedead must be lying within. _Bon Dieu!_ Not a soul, not a shadow; allvacant in this soft twilight; nothing moving, nothing visible. The greatdoors of the Cathedral were wide open, and every little entry. Howspacious the city looked, how silent, how wonderful! There was room fora squadron to wheel in the great square, but not so much as a bird, nota dog; all pale and empty. We stood for a long time (or it seemed a longtime) at the corner, looking right and left. We were afraid to make astep farther. We knew not what to do. Nor could I speak; there was muchI wished to say, but something stopped my voice.
At last M. le Cure found utterance. His voice so moved the silence, thatat first my heart was faint with fear; it was hoarse, and the soundrolled round the great square like muffled thunder. One did not seem toknow what strange faces might rise at the open windows, what terrorsmight appear. But all he said was, 'We are ambassadors in vain.'
What was it that followed? My teeth chattered. I could not hear. It wasas if 'in vain!--in vain!' came back in echoes, more and more distantfrom every opening. They breathed all around us, then were still, thenreturned louder from beyond the river. M. le Cure, though he is aspiritual person, was no more courageous than I. With one impulse, weput out our hands and grasped each other. We retreated back to back,like men hemmed in by foes, and I felt his heart beating wildly, and hemine. Then silence, silence settled all around.
It was now my turn to speak. I would not be behind, come what might,though my lips were parched with mental trouble.
I said, 'Are we indeed too late? Lecamus must have deceived himself.'
To this there came no echo and no reply, which would be a relief, youmay suppose; but it was not so. It was well-nigh more appalling, moreterrible than the sound; for though we spoke thus, we did not believethe place was empty. Those whom we approached seemed to be wrappingthemselves in silence, invisible, waiting to speak with some awfulpurpose when their time came.
There we stood for some minutes, like two children, holding each other'shands, leaning against each other at the corner of the square--ashelpless as children, waiting for what should come next. I say itfrankly, my brain and my heart were one throb. They plunged and beat sowildly that I could scarcely have heard any other sound. In this respectI think he was more calm. There was on his face that look of intenselistening which strains the very soul. But neither he nor I heardanything, not so much as a whisper. At last, 'Let us go on,' I said. Westumbled as we went, with agitation and fear. We were afraid to turn ourbacks to those empty houses, which seemed to gaze at us with all theirempty windows pale and glaring. Mechanically, scarce knowing what I wasdoing, I made towards my own house.
There was no one there. The rooms were all open and empty. I went fromone to another, with a sense of expectation which made my heart faint;but no one was there, nor anything changed. Yet I do wrong to say thatnothing was changed. In my library, where I keep my books, where myfather and grandfather conducted their affairs, like me, one littledifference struck me suddenly, as if some one had dealt me a blow. Theold bureau which my grandfather had used, at which I remember standingby his knee, had been drawn from the corner where I had placed it outof the way (to make room for the furniture I preferred), and replaced,as in old times, in the middle of the room. It was nothing; yet how muchwas in this! though only myself could have perceived it. Some of the olddrawers were open, full of old papers. I glanced over there in myagitation, to see if there might be any writing, any message addressedto me; but there was nothing, nothing but this silent sign of those whohad been here. Naturally M. le Cure, who kept watch at the door, wasunacquainted with the cause of my emotion. The last room I entered wasmy wife's. Her veil was lying on the white bed, as if she had gone outthat moment, and some of her ornaments were on the table. It seemed tome that the atmosphere of mystery which filled the rest of the house wasnot here. A ribbon, a little ring, what nothings are these? Yet theymake even emptiness sweet. In my Agnes's room there is a little shrine,more sacred to us than any altar. There is the picture of our littleMarie. It is covered with a veil, embroidered with needlework which itis a wonder to see. Not always can even Agnes bear to look upon the faceof this angel, whom God has taken from her. She has worked the littlecurtain with lilies, with white and virginal flowers; and no hand, noteven mine, ever draws it aside. What did I see? The veil was boldlyfolded away; the face of the child looked at me across her mother's bed,and upon the frame of the picture was laid a branch of olive, withsilvery leaves. I know no more but that I uttered a great cry, and flungmyself upon my knees before this angel-gift. What stranger could knowwhat was in my heart? M. le Cure, my friend, my brother, came hastily tome, with a pale countenance; but when he looked at me, he drew back andturned away his face, and a sob came from his breast. Never child hadcalled him father, were it in heaven, were it on earth. Well I knewwhose tender fingers had placed the branch of olive there.
I went out of the room and locked the door. It was just that my wifeshould find it where it had been laid.
I put my arm into his as we went out once more into the street. Thatmoment had made us brother and brother. And this union made us morestrong. Besides, the silence and the emptiness began to grow lessterrible to us. We spoke in our natural voices as we came out, scarcelyknowing how great was the difference between them and the whispers whichhad been all we dared at first to employ. Yet the sound of these loudertones scared us when we heard them, for we were still trembling, notassured of deliverance. It was he who showed himself a man, not I; formy heart was overwhelmed, the tears stood in my eyes, I had no strengthto resist my impressions.
'Martin Dupin,' he said sud
denly, 'it is enough. We are frighteningourselves with shadows. We are afraid even of our own voices. This mustnot be. Enough! Whosoever they were who have been in Semur, theirvisitation is over, and they are gone.'
'I think so,' I said faintly; 'but God knows.' Just then somethingpassed me as sure as ever man passed me. I started back out of the wayand dropped my friend's arm, and covered my eyes with my hands. It wasnothing that could be seen; it was an air, a breath. M. le Cure lookedat me wildly; he was as a man beside himself. He struck his foot uponthe pavement and gave a loud and bitter cry.
'Is it delusion?' he said, 'O my God! or shall not even this, not evenso much as this be revealed to me?'
To see a man who had so ruled himself, who had resisted everydisturbance and stood fast when all gave way, moved thus at the verylast to cry out with passion against that which had been
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