dream?'
'M. Lecamus, you will forgive me if I hurt you. You saw--_her_?'
'No. Seeing--what is seeing? It is but a vulgar sense, it is not all;but I sat at her feet. She was with me. We were one, as of old----.' Agleam of strange light came into his dim eyes. 'Seeing is noteverything, Madame.'
'No, M. Lecamus. I heard the dear voice of my little Marie.'
'Nor is hearing everything,' he said hastily. 'Neither did she speak;but she was there. We were one; we had no need to speak. What isspeaking or hearing when heart wells into heart? For a very littlemoment, only for a moment, Madame Dupin.'
I put out my hand to him; I could not say a word. How was it possiblethat she could go away again, and leave him so feeble, so worn, alone?
'Only a very little moment,' he said, slowly. 'There were othervoices--but not hers. I think I am glad it was in the spirit we met, sheand I--I prefer not to see her till--after----'
'Oh, M. Lecamus, I am too much of the world! To see them, to hearthem--it is for this I long.'
'No, dear Madame. I would not have it till--after----. But I must makehaste, I must write, I hear the hum approaching----'
I could not tell what he meant; but I asked no more. How stilleverything was The people lay asleep on the grass, and I, too, wasoverwhelmed by the great quiet. I do not know if I slept, but I dreamed.I saw a child very fair and tall always near me, but hiding her face. Itappeared to me in my dream that all I wished for was to see this hiddencountenance, to know her name; and that I followed and watched her, butfor a long time in vain. All at once she turned full upon me, held outher arms to me. Do I need to say who it was? I cried out in my dream tothe good God, that He had done well to take her from me--that this wasworth it all. Was it a dream? I would not give that dream for rears ofwaking life. Then I started and came back, in a moment, to the stillmorning sunshine, the sight of the men asleep, the roughness of the wallagainst which I leant. Some one laid a hand on mine. I opened my eyes,not knowing what it was--if it might be my husband coming back, or herwhom I had seen in my dream. It was M. Lecamus. He had risen up upon hisknees--his papers were all laid aside. His eyes in those hollow caveswere opened wide, and quivering with a strange light. He had caught mywrist with his worn hand. 'Listen!' he said; his voice fell to awhisper; a light broke over his face. 'Listen!' he cried; 'they arecoming.' While he thus grasped my wrist, holding up his weak andwavering body in that strained attitude, the moments passed very slowly.I was afraid of him, of his worn face and thin hands, and the wildeagerness about him. I am ashamed to say it, but so it was. And for thisreason it seemed long to me, though I think not more than a minute, tillsuddenly the bells rang out, sweet and glad as they ring at Easter forthe resurrection. There had been ringing of bells before, but not likethis. With a start and universal movement the sleeping men got up fromwhere they lay--not one but every one, coming out of the little hollowsand from under the trees as if from graves. They all sprang up tolisten, with one impulse; and as for me, knowing that Martin was in thecity, can it be wondered at if my heart beat so loud that I wasincapable of thought of others! What brought me to myself was thestrange weight of M. Lecamus on my arm. He put his other hand upon me,all cold in the brightness, all trembling. He raised himself thus slowlyto his feet. When I looked at him I shrieked aloud. I forgot all else.His face was transformed--a smile came upon it that was ineffable--thelight blazed up, and then quivered and flickered in his eyes like adying flame. All this time he was leaning his weight upon my arm. Thensuddenly he loosed his hold of me, stretched out his hands, stood up,and--died. My God! shall I ever forget him as he stood--his head raised,his hands held out, his lips moving, the eyelids opened wide with aquiver, the light flickering and dying He died first, standing up,saying something with his pale lips--then fell. And it seemed to me allat once, and for a moment, that I heard a sound of many people marchingpast, the murmur and hum of a great multitude; and softly, softly I wasput out of the way, and a voice said, '_Adieu, ma soeur_.' '_Ma soeur_!'who called me '_Ma soeur_'? I have no sister. I cried out, saying I knownot what. They told me after that I wept and wrung my hands, and said,'Not thee, not thee, Marie!' But after that I knew no more.
THE NARRATIVE of MADAME VEUVE DUPIN (_nee_ LEPELLETIER).
To complete the _proces verbal_, my son wishes me to give my account ofthe things which happened out of Semur during its miraculous occupation,as it is his desire, in the interests of truth, that nothing should beleft out. In this I find a great difficulty for many reasons; in thefirst place, because I have not the aptitude of expressing myself inwriting, and it may well be that the phrases I employ may fail in thecorrectness which good French requires; and again, because it is mymisfortune not to agree in all points with my Martin, though I am proudto think that he is, in every relation of life, so good a man, that thewomen of his family need not hesitate to follow his advice--butnecessarily there are some points which one reserves; and I cannot butfeel the closeness of the connection between the late remarkableexhibition of the power of Heaven and the outrage done upon the goodSisters of St. Jean by the administration, of which unfortunately my sonis at the head. I say unfortunately, since it is the spirit ofindependence and pride in him which has resisted all the warningsoffered by Divine Providence, and which refuses even now to right thewrongs of the Sisters of St. Jean; though, if it may be permitted to meto say it, as his mother, it was very fortunate in the late troublesthat Martin Dupin found himself at the head of the Commune ofSemur--since who else could have kept his self-control as hedid?--caring for all things and forgetting nothing; who else would, withso much courage, have entered the city? and what other man, being aperson of the world and secular in all his thoughts, as, alas! it is socommon for men to be, would have so nobly acknowledged his obligationsto the good God when our misfortunes were over? My constant prayers forhis conversion do not make me incapable of perceiving the nobility ofhis conduct. When the evidence has been incontestible he has nothesitated to make a public profession of his gratitude, which all willacknowledge to be the sign of a truly noble mind and a heart of gold.
I have long felt that the times were ripe for some exhibition of thepower of God. Things have been going very badly among us. Not only havethe powers of darkness triumphed over our holy church, in a manner everto be wept and mourned by all the faithful, and which might have beenexpected to bring down fire from Heaven upon our heads, but thecorruption of popular manners (as might also have been expected) hasbeen daily arising to a pitch unprecedented. The fetes may indeed besaid to be observed, but in what manner? In the cabarets rather than inthe churches; and as for the fasts and vigils, who thinks of them? whoattends to those sacred moments of penitence? Scarcely even a few ladiesare found to do so, instead of the whole population, as in duty bound. Ihave even seen it happen that my daughter-in-law and myself, and herfriend Madame de Bois-Sombre, and old Mere Julie from the market, haveformed the whole congregation. Figure to yourself the _bon Dieu_ and allthe blessed saints looking down from heaven to hear--four persons onlyin our great Cathedral! I trust that I know that the good God does notdespise even two or three; but if any one will think of it--the greatbells rung, and the candles lighted, and the cure in his beautifulrobes, and all the companies of heaven looking on--and only us four!This shows the neglect of all sacred ordinances that was in Semur.While, on the other hand, what grasping there was for money; what fraudand deceit; what foolishness and dissipation! Even the Mere Julieherself, though a devout person, the pears she sold to us on the lastmarket day before these events, were far, very far, as she must haveknown, from being satisfactory. In the same way Gros-Jean, though apeasant from our own village near La Clairiere, and a man for whom wehave often done little services, attempted to impose upon me about thewood for the winter's use, the very night before these occurrences. 'Itis enough,' I cried out, 'to bring the dead out of their graves.' I didnot know--the holy saints forgive me!--how near it was to the momentwhen this should come true.
And perhaps it is well that
I should admit without concealment that I amnot one of the women to whom it has been given to see those who cameback. There are moments when I will not deny I have asked myself whythose others should have been so privileged and never I. Not even in adream do I see those whom I have lost; yet I think that I too have lovedthem as well as any have been loved. I have stood by their beds to thelast; I have closed their beloved eyes. _Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ have not Idrunk of that cup to the dregs? But never to me, never to me, has itbeen permitted either to see or to hear. _Bien_! it has been so ordered.Agnes, my daughter-in-law, is a good woman. I have not a word to sayagainst her; and if there are moments when my heart rebels, when I askmyself why she should have her eyes opened and not I, the good God knowsthat I do not complain against His will--it is in His hand to do