fellow-citizens turningwith one impulse, with a sudden cry of joy, to hail the full day.
_Le grand jour!_ Never in my life did I feel the full happiness of it,the full sense of the words before. The sun burst out into shining, thebirds into singing. The sky stretched over us--deep and unfathomable andblue,--the grass grew under our feet, a soft air of morning blew uponus; waving the curls of the children, the veils of the women, whosefaces were lit up by the beautiful day. After three days of darknesswhat a resurrection! It seemed to make up to us for the misery of beingthus expelled from our homes. It was early, and all the freshness of themorning was upon the road and the fields, where the sun had just driedthe dew. The river ran softly, reflecting the blue sky. How black it hadbeen, deep and dark as a stream of ink, when I had looked down upon itfrom the Mont St. Lambert! and now it ran as clear and free as the voiceof a little child. We all shared this moment of joy--for to us of theSouth the sunshine is as the breath of life, and to be deprived of ithad been terrible. But when that first pleasure was over, the evidenceof our strange position forced itself upon us with overpowering realityand force, made stronger by the very light. In the dimness it had notseemed so certain; now, gazing at each other in the clear light of thenatural morning, we saw what had happened to us. No more delusion waspossible. We could not flatter ourselves now that it was a trick or adeception. M. le Clairon stood there like the rest of us, staring at theclosed gates which science could not open. And there stood M. le Cure,which was more remarkable still. The Church herself had not been able todo anything. We stood, a crowd of houseless exiles, looking at eachother, our children clinging to us, our hearts failing us, expelled fromour homes. As we looked in each other's faces we saw our own trouble.Many of the women sat down and wept; some upon the stones in the road,some on the grass. The children took fright from them, and began to crytoo. What was to become of us? I looked round upon this crowd withdespair in my heart. It was I to whom every one would look--for lodging,for direction--everything that human creatures want. It was my businessto forget myself, though I also had been driven from my home and mycity. Happily there was one thing I had left. In the pocket of myovercoat was my scarf of office. I stepped aside behind a tree, and tookit out, and tied it upon me. That was something. There was thus arepresentative of order and law in the midst of the exiles, whatevermight happen. This action, which a great number of the crowd saw,restored confidence. Many of the poor people gathered round me, andplaced themselves near me, especially those women who had no naturalsupport. When M. le Cure saw this, it seemed to make a great impressionupon him. He changed colour, he who was usually so calm. Hitherto he hadappeared bewildered, amazed to find himself as others. This, I must add,though you may perhaps think it superstitious, surprised me very muchtoo. But now he regained his self-possession. He stepped upon a piece ofwood that lay in front of the gate. 'My children'--he said. But justthen the Cathedral bells, which had gone on tolling, suddenly burst intoa wild peal. I do not know what it sounded like. It was a clamour ofnotes all run together, tone upon tone, without time or measure, asthough a multitude had seized upon the bells and pulled all the ropes atonce. If it was joy, what strange and terrible joy! It froze the veryblood in our veins. M. le Cure became quite pale. He stepped downhurriedly from the piece of wood. We all made a hurried movement fartheroff from the gate.
It was now that I perceived the necessity of doing something, of gettingthis crowd disposed of, especially the women and the children. I am notashamed to own that I trembled like the others; and nothing less thanthe consciousness that all eyes were upon me, and that my scarf ofoffice marked me out among all who stood around, could have kept me frommoving with precipitation as they did. I was enabled, however, toretire at a deliberate pace, and being thus slightly detached from thecrowd, I took advantage of the opportunity to address them. Above allthings, it was my duty to prevent a tumult in these unprecedentedcircumstances. 'My friends,' I said, 'the event which has occurred isbeyond explanation for the moment. The very nature of it is mysterious;the circumstances are such as require the closest investigation. Buttake courage. I pledge myself not to leave this place till the gates areopen, and you can return to your homes; in the meantime, however, thewomen and the children cannot remain here. Let those who have friends inthe villages near, go and ask for shelter; and let all who will, go tomy house of La Clairiere. My mother, my wife! recall to yourselves theposition you occupy, and show an example. Lead our neighbours, I entreatyou, to La Clairiere.'
My mother is advanced in years and no longer strong, but she has a greatheart. 'I will go,' she said. 'God bless thee, my son! There will noharm happen; for if this be true which we are told, thy father is inSemur.'
There then occurred one of those incidents for which calculation neverwill prepare us. My mother's words seemed, as it were to open theflood-gates; my wife came up to me with the light in her face which Ihad seen when we left our own door. 'It was our little Marie--ourangel,' she said. And then there arose a great cry and clamour ofothers, both men and women pressing round. 'I saw my mother,' said one,'who is dead twenty years come the St. Jean.' 'And I my little Rene,'said another. 'And I my Camille, who was killed in Africa.' And lo, whatdid they do, but rush towards the gate in a crowd--that gate from whichthey had but this moment fled in terror--beating upon it, and cryingout, 'Open to us, open to us, our most dear! Do you think we haveforgotten you? We have never forgotten you!' What could we do withthem, weeping thus, smiling, holding out their arms to--we knew notwhat? Even my Agnes was beyond my reach. Marie was our little girl whowas dead. Those who were thus transported by a knowledge beyond ourswere the weakest among us; most of them were women, the men old orfeeble, and some children. I can recollect that I looked for PaulLecamus among them, with wonder not to see him there. But though theywere weak, they were beyond our strength to guide. What could we do withthem? How could we force them away while they held to the fancy thatthose they loved were there? As it happens in times of emotion, it wasthose who were most impassioned who took the first place. We were at ourwits' end.
But while we stood waiting, not knowing what to do, another soundsuddenly came from the walls, which made them all silent in a moment.The most of us ran to this point and that (some taking flightaltogether; but with the greater part anxious curiosity and anxiety hadfor the moment extinguished fear), in a wild eagerness to see who orwhat it was. But there was nothing to be seen, though the sound camefrom the wall close to the Mont St. Lambert, which I have alreadydescribed. It was to me like the sound of a trumpet, and so I heardothers say; and along with the trumpet were sounds as of words, though Icould not make them out. But those others seemed to understand--theygrew calmer--they ceased to weep. They raised their faces, all with thatlight upon them--that light I had seen in my Agnes. Some of them fellupon their knees. Imagine to yourself what a sight it was, all of usstanding round, pale, stupefied, without a word to say! Then the womensuddenly burst forth into replies--_'Oui, ma cherie! Oui, mon ange_!'they cried. And while we looked they rose up; they came back, callingthe children around them. My Agnes took that place which I had biddenher take. She had not hearkened to me, to leave me--but she hearkenednow; and though I had bidden her to do this, yet to see her do itbewildered me, made my heart stand still. '_Mon ami_,' she said, 'I mustleave thee; it is commanded: they will not have the children suffer.'What could we do? We stood pale and looked on, while all the littleones, all the feeble, were gathered in a little army. My mother stoodlike me--to her nothing had been revealed. She was very pale, and therewas a quiver of pain in her lips. She was the one who had been ready todo my bidding: but there was a rebellion in her heart now. When theprocession was formed (for it was my care to see that everything wasdone in order), she followed, but among the last. Thus they went away,many of them weeping, looking back, waving their hands to us. My Agnescovered her face, she could not look at me; but she obeyed. They wentsome to this side, some to that, leaving us gazing. For a long time wedid nothing but watch them, going along the roa
ds. What had their angelssaid to them? Nay, but God knows. I heard the sound; it was like thesound of the silver trumpets that travellers talk of; it was like musicfrom heaven. I turned to M. le Cure, who was standing by. 'What is it?'I cried, 'you are their director--you are an ecclesiastic--you know whatbelongs to the unseen. What is this that has been said to them?' I havealways thought well of M. le Cure. There were tears running down hischeeks.
'I know not,' he said. 'I am a miserable like the rest. What they knowis between God and them. Me! I have been of the world, like the rest.'
This is how we were left alone--the men of the city--to take what meanswere best to get back to our homes. There were several left among us whohad shared the enlightenment of the women, but these were not persons
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