We re-entered by the door for foot-passengers which is by the side of
the great Porte St. Lambert.
I will not deny that my heart was, as one may say, in my throat. A man
does what is his duty, what his fellow-citizens expect of him; but that
is not to say that he renders himself callous to natural emotion. My
veins were swollen, the blood coursing through them like a high-flowing
river; my tongue was parched and dry. I am not ashamed to admit that
from head to foot my body quivered and trembled. I was afraid--but I
went forward; no man can do more. As for M. le Curé he said not a word.
If he had any fears he concealed them as I did. But his occupation is
with the ghostly and spiritual. To see men die, to accompany them to
the verge of the grave, to create for them during the time of their
suffering after death (if it is true that they suffer), an interest in
heaven, this his profession must necessarily give him courage. My
position is very different. I have not made up my mind upon these
subjects. When one can believe frankly in all the Church says, many
things become simple, which otherwise cause great difficulty in the
mind. The mysterious and wonderful then find their natural place in the
course of affairs; but when a man thinks for himself, and has to take
everything on his own responsibility, and make all the necessary
explanations, there is often great difficulty. So many things will not
fit into their places, they straggle like weary men on a march. One
cannot put them together, or satisfy one's self.
The sun was shining outside the walls when we re-entered Semur; but the
first step we took was into a gloom as black as night, which did not
re-assure us, it is unnecessary to say. A chill was in the air, of night
and mist. We shivered, not with the nerves only but with the cold. And
as all was dark, so all was still. I had expected to feel the presence
of those who were there, as I had felt the crowd of the invisible before
they entered the city. But the air was vacant, there was nothing but
darkness and cold. We went on for a little way with a strange fervour of
expectation. At each moment, at each step, it seemed to me that some
great call must be made upon my self-possession and courage, some event
happen; but there was nothing. All was calm, the houses on either side
of the way were open, all but the office of the _octroi_ which was black
as night with its closed door. M. le Curé has told me since that he
believed Them to be there, though unseen. This idea, however, was not in
my 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 the
walls 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 as
if some one had left them there; they threw a strange glimmer into the
darkness, flickering in the wind. By and by as we went on the gloom
lessened, and by the time we had reached the Grande Rue, there was a
clear steady pale twilight by which we saw everything, as by the light
of day.
We stood at the corner of the square and looked round. Although still I
heard the beating of my own pulses loudly working in my ears, yet it was
less 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 repose
sheltered there which no man can disturb; and the air has in it a sense
of life, subdued, yet warm. But here all was open, and all deserted. The
house of the miser Grosgain was exposed from the highest to the lowest,
but nobody was there to search for what was hidden. The hotel de
Bois-Sombre, with its great _porte-cochère,_ always so jealously closed;
and my own house, which my mother and wife have always guarded so
carefully, that no damp nor breath of night might enter, had every door
and window wide open. Desolation seemed seated in all these empty
places. I feared to go into my own dwelling. It seemed to me as if the
dead must be lying within. _Bon Dieu!_ Not a soul, not a shadow; all
vacant in this soft twilight; nothing moving, nothing visible. The great
doors of the Cathedral were wide open, and every little entry. How
spacious the city looked, how silent, how wonderful! There was room for
a squadron to wheel in the great square, but not so much as a bird, not
a dog; all pale and empty. We stood for a long time (or it seemed a long
time) at the corner, looking right and left. We were afraid to make a
step farther. We knew not what to do. Nor could I speak; there was much
I wished to say, but something stopped my voice.
At last M. le Curé found utterance. His voice so moved the silence, that
at first my heart was faint with fear; it was hoarse, and the sound
rolled round the great square like muffled thunder. One did not seem to
know what strange faces might rise at the open windows, what terrors
might appear. But all he said was, 'We are ambassadors in vain.'
What was it that followed? My teeth chattered. I could not hear. It was
as if 'in vain!--in vain!' came back in echoes, more and more distant
from every opening. They breathed all around us, then were still, then
returned louder from beyond the river. M. le Curé, though he is a
spiritual person, was no more courageous than I. With one impulse, we
put 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 he
mine. 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.