I.
THE MASSACRE OF SAINT BARTHOLOMEW.
I.
[Illustration 097]
The children awoke.
The little girl was the first to open her eyes.
The waking of children is like the opening of flowers; and like the
flowers, these pure little souls seem to exhale fragrance.
Georgette, the youngest of the three, who last May was but a nursing
infant, and now only twenty months old, lifted her little head, sat up
in her cradle, looked at her toes, and began her baby-talk.
A ray of light fell upon the crib; it would have been difficult to say
which was the rosier,--Georgette's foot, or the dawn.
The other two children still slept,--boys always sleep more soundly
than girls,--while Georgette, contented and peaceful, began to prattle.
René-Jean's hair was brown, Gros-Alain's auburn, and Georgette's
blond,--all shades peculiar to their ages, which would change as the
children grew older. René-Jean looked like an infant Hercules as he
lay there on his stomach fast asleep, with his two fists in his eyes.
Gros-Alain had thrust his legs outside his little bed.
All three were in rags. The clothes given them by the battalion of the
Bonnet-Rouge were in tatters; they had not even a shirt between them.
The two boys were almost naked, and Georgette was bundled up in a rag
which had formerly been a petticoat, but which now served the purpose
of a jacket. Who had taken care of these little ones? It would be
impossible to tell. Certainly not a mother. Those savage peasants who
had carried them along as they fought their way from forest to forest,
gave them their share of the soup, and nothing more. The little ones
lived as best they could; they had masters in plenty, but no father.
Yet childhood is enveloped by an atmosphere of enchantment that lends a
charm to its very rags; and these three tiny beings were delightful.
Georgette chattered away.
The child prattles as the bird sings; but it is always the same
hymn,--indistinct, inarticulate, and yet full of deep meaning; only the
child, unlike the bird, has the dark fate of humanity before it. None
can listen to the joyous song of a child without a sense of sadness.
The lisping of a human soul from the lips of childhood may well be
called the most sublime of earthly songs. This confused murmuring of
thought, which is as yet mere instinct, contains an unconscious appeal
to eternal justice. Perhaps it is a protest uttered on the threshold of
life,--an unconscious protest, distressing to hear; ignorance, smiling
on the infinite, seems to make all creation responsible for the fate
allotted to a weak and defenceless being. Should misfortune befall, it
would seem like an abuse of confidence.
The prattle of a child is more and less than speech; it is a song
without notes, a language without syllables, a murmur that begins in
heaven but is not to end on earth. As it began before birth, so it
will go on after death. As the lispings are the continuance of what
the child said when he was an angel, they are likewise a foreshadowing
of what he will say in eternity. The cradle has its Yesterday, as the
grave has its Morrow; and the double mystery of both mingles with this
unintelligible babble. There is no such proof of God, of eternity, of
responsibility, and of the duality of destiny, as is this awe-inspiring
shadow which we see resting upon a bright young soul.
Still, there was nothing melancholy about Georgette's chatter, for her
sweet face was wreathed in smiles. Her mouth, her eyes, the dimples in
her cheeks, all smiled in concert; and by this smile she seemed to show
her delight in the morning. The human soul believes in sunshine. The
sky was blue, the weather warm and beautiful; and this frail creature,
neither knowing nor comprehending the meaning of life,--living in a
dream, as it were,--felt safe amid the loveliness of Nature, with its
friendly trees and its pure verdure, the serene and peaceful landscape,
with the noises of birds, springs, insects, and leaves, and above all,
the intense purity of the sunshine.
René-Jean, the oldest of the children, a boy over four years old, was
the next one to wake. He stood up, jumped out of his cradle like a
little man, discovered his porringer, as the most natural thing that
could happen, seated himself on the floor, and began to eat his soup.
Georgette's prattle had not roused Gros-Alain, but at the sound of the
spoon in the porringer he started and opened his eyes. Gros-Alain was
the three-year-old boy. He too saw his bowl, and as it was within reach
of his arm, he seized it, and without getting out of bed, with his dish
on his knees and his spoon in his fist, he straightway followed the
example of René-Jean.
Georgette did not hear them; the modulations of her voice seemed to
keep time with the cradling of a dream. Her large eyes, gazing upward,
were divine; however gloomy may be the vault over a child's head,
heaven is always reflected in its eyes.
When René-Jean had finished, he scraped the bottom of the porringer
with the spoon, sighed, and remarked with dignity,--
"I have eaten my soup."
This roused Georgette from her dreaming.
"Thoup," said she.
And seeing that René-Jean had finished his, and that Gros-Alain was
still eating, she took the bowl of soup which stood beside her, and
began to eat, carding the spoon quite as often to her ear as she did to
her mouth.
From time to time she renounced civilization and ate with her fingers.
When Gros-Alain had scraped the bottom of his porringer he jumped out
of bed and trotted after his brother.
II.
Suddenly from below rang the blast of a clarion, stern and loud, coming
from the direction of the forest, to which a trumpet from the summit of
the tower made reply.
This time the clarion called, and the trumpet answered. And again came
the summons from the clarion, followed by the reply of the trumpet.
Then from the edge of the forest rose a voice, distant but clear,
shouting distinctly,--
"Brigands, a summons! If by sunset you have not surrendered at
discretion, we shall begin the assault."
A voice that sounded like the roar of a wild beast answered from the
top of the tower,--
"Attack."
The voice from below replied,--
"A cannon will be fired as a last warning half an hour before the
assault."
And the voice from above repeated,--
"Attack."
The children did not hear these voices, but the clarion and the horn
echoed louder and more distinctly, and at the first sound Georgette
craned her neck and ceased eating; she had dropped her spoon into the
porringer, and at the second blast from the clarion she lifted the tiny
forefinger of her right hand, and alternately raising and letting it
fall, she marked the time of the trumpet, that was prolonged by the
second call of the horn; when the horn and the clarion were silent,
with her finger still uplifted, she paused dreamily, and then murmured
to herself, "Muthic."
She probably meant "music,"
The two older ones, René-Jean and Gros-Alain, had paid no attention
to the horn and the clarion; they were absorbed by another object.
Gros-Alain, who had spied a woodlouse in the act of crawling across the
library floor, exclaimed,--
"A creature!"
René-Jean ran up to him.
"It pricks," continued Gros-Alain.
"Don't hurt it," said René-Jean.
And both the children set themselves to watch the traveller.
Meanwhile Georgette, having finished her soup, was looking about for
her brothers, who, crouching in the embrasure of a window, hung gravely
over the woodlouse, their heads so close together that their hair
intermingled; holding their breath, they gazed in astonishment at the
creature, which, far from appreciating so much admiration, had stopped
crawling, and no longer attempted to move.
Georgette, seeing that her brothers were watching something, desired
to know what it might be. It was no easy matter to reach them,
but she undertook it nevertheless. The journey fairly bristled
with difficulties; all sorts of things were scattered over the
floor,--stools turned upside down, bundles of papers, packing-cases
which had been opened and left empty, trunks, all sorts of
rubbish,--around which she had to make her way: a very archipelago
of reefs; but Georgette took the risk. Her first achievement was to
crawl out of the crib; then she plunged among the reefs. Winding her
way through the straits, and pushing aside a footstool, she crawled
between two boxes and over a bundle of papers, climbing up on one
side, rolling down on the other, innocently exposing her poor little
naked body, and finally reached what a sailor would call the open
sea,--that is to say, quite an expanse of floor unencumbered by rubbish
and free from perils. Here she made a rush, and with the agility of
a cat she crept across the room on all fours as far as the window,
where she encountered a formidable obstacle in the shape of the long
ladder, which lying against the wall ended at this window, reaching
a little beyond the corner of the embrasure, thus forming a sort of
promontory between Georgette and her brothers. She paused, and seemed
to consider the subject; and when she had solved the problem to her
satisfaction, she resolutely clasped her rosy fingers about one of the
rungs, which, as the ladder rested on its side, were not horizontal
but vertical, and tried to pull herself up on to her feet; and when,
after two unsuccessful attempts, she at last succeeded, she walked
the entire length of the ladder, catching one rung after the other.
On reaching the end her support failed, she stumbled and fell; but,
nothing daunted, she caught at the end of one of its enormous poles
with her tiny hands, pulled herself up, doubled the promontory, looked
at René-Jean and Gros-Alain, and burst out laughing.
[Illustration 098]
III.
[Illustration 099]
Just then René-Jean, satisfied with the result of his investigations of
the woodlouse, raised his head and affirmed,--
"It is a female."
Georgette's laughter made René-Jean laugh, and Gros-Alain laughed
because his brother did.
Georgette having effected her object and joined her brothers, they sat
round upon the floor as in a sort of diminutive chamber, but their
friend the woodlouse had vanished.
It had taken advantage of Georgette's laughter and hidden itself away
in a crack.
Other events followed the visit of the woodlouse.
First some swallows flew by.
Their nests were probably under the eaves. They flew quite close to
the window, somewhat startled at the sight of the children, describing
great circles in the air, and uttering their sweet spring note. This
made the three children look up, and the woodlouse was forgotten.
Georgette pointed her finger at the swallows, crying,--
"Biddies!"
[Illustration 100]
René-Jean reprimanded her,--
I "You mustn't say 'biddies,' missy; you must say 'birds.'"
"'Bir's,'" said Georgette.
And, all three watched the swallows.
Then a bee flew in.
Nothing reminds one of the human soul more than the bee, which goes
from flower to flower as a soul from star to star, gathering honey as
the soul absorbs the light.
This one came buzzing in with an air of great stir, as if it said:
"Here I am; I have just seen the roses, and now I have come to see the
children. What is going on here, I should like to know?"
A bee is a housekeeper, scolding as it hums.
As long as the bee stayed, the children never once moved their eyes
from it.
It explored the entire library, rummaging in every corner, flying
about quite as if it were at home in its hive; winged and melodious,
it darted from case to case, peering through the glass at the titles
of the books, just as if it had a brain, and having paid its visit, it
flew away.
"It has gone home," said René-Jean.
"It is an animal," remarked Gros-Alain.
"No," replied René-Jean, "it is a fly."
"A f'y,'" said Georgette.
Then Gros-Alain, who had just found a string on the floor with a knot
in the end, took the other end between his thumb and his forefinger,
and having made a sort of windmill of the string, he was deeply
absorbed in watching its whirling.
Georgette on her part, having returned to her former character of
quadruped, and started again on her capricious journeys across
the floor, had discovered a venerable arm-chair, with moth-eaten
upholstery, from which the horse-hair was falling out in several
places. She had stopped before this arm-chair, and was carefully
enlarging the holes and pulling out the horse-hair.
Suddenly she raised her finger to attract her brothers' attention and
make them listen.
They turned their heads.
A vague far-away sound could be heard outside: probably the attacking
camp executing some strategic manoeuvre in the forest; there was
a neighing of horses, a beating of drums, a rolling to and fro of
caissons, a clanking of chains, and military calls and responses echoed
on every side,--a confusion of wild sounds, whose combination resulted
in a sort of harmony; the children listened in delight.
"It is the good God who does that," said Gros-Alain.
IV.
The noise ceased.
René-Jean had fallen into a dream.
How are ideas formed and scattered in those little minds? What is
the mysterious action of those memories, so faint and evanescent?
In this dreamy little head there was a confused vision of the good
God, of prayer, of clasped hands, of a certain tender smile that had
once rested on him, and which now he missed, and René-Jean whispered
half-aloud, "Mamma!"
"Mamma," said Gros-Alain.
"Mma," repeated Georgette.
Thereupon René-Jean began to jump, and Gros-Alain lost no time in
following his example, imitating all the movements and gestures of his
brother; not so Georgette. Three years may copy four, but twenty months
preserves its independence.
Georgette remained seated, uttering a word now and then; she had as yet
achieved no success in sentences.
She was a thinker, and only uttered monosyllabic apothegms. After a
few moments, however, she succumbed to the influence of example, and
began her attempts to imitate her brothers, and these three pairs of
naked little feet began to dance, run, and totter about in the dust
that covered the old oaken floor, under the serious eyes of the marble
busts, towards which Georgette from to time threw an uneasy glance,
whispering,--
"The Momommes!"
In the language of Georgette a "momomme" was anything that looked like
a man without really being one. Living beings are strangely confused
with ghosts in the minds of children.
As Georgette tottered along after her brothers she was always on the
verge of descending to all fours.
Suddenly René-Jean, who had gone near the window, raised his head, but
dropped it the next moment, and ran to hide in a corner formed by
the embrasure of the window. He had caught sight of some one looking
at him. It was one of the Blues, a soldier from the encampment on the
plateau, who, taking advantage of the armistice and perhaps somewhat
infringing thereon, had ventured to the edge of the escarpment from
whence he had gained a view of the interior of the library. Seeing
René-Jean hide, Gros-Alain hid also; he cuddled down close by his
brother's side, and Georgette hid herself behind them, and there they
stayed silent and motionless, Georgette laying her finger on her
lips. After a few moments René-Jean ventured to put out his head, but
finding the soldier still there, he quickly drew it back, and the three
children hardly dared to breathe. This lasted for quite a long time,
but finally Georgette grew tired of it; she plucked up the courage to
look out, and behold the soldier had gone, and once more they began to
run and play.
[Illustration 101]
Gros-Alain, although an imitator and admirer of René-Jean, possessed a
talent peculiarly his own, that of making discoveries; and his brother
and sister now beheld him prancing in wild delight, dragging along a
little four-wheeled cart, which he had unexpectedly discovered.
This doll-carriage had been lying there for years, forgotten in the
dust, side by side with works of genius and the busts of sages. Perhaps
Gauvain may have played with it when he was a child.
Gros-Alain had converted his bit of string into a whip, which he
cracked with great exultation. Thus it is with discoverers. If one
cannot discover America, one can at least find a small cart. It
amounts to much the same thing.
But he must share his treasure; René-Jean was eager to harness himself
to the wagon, and Georgette tried to get in and sit down.
René-Jean was the horse, Gros-Alain the coachman.
But the coachman did not know his business, and the horse felt obliged
to give him a few lessons.
"Say, 'Get up!'" cried René-Jean.
"'Get up!'" repeated Gros-Alain.
The carriage upset, and Georgette fell out, whereupon she proceeded to
make it known that angels can shriek,--and after that she had half a
mind to cry.
"You are too big, missy," said René-Jean.
"I big," stammered Georgette; and her vanity seemed to console her for
her fall.
The cornice under the windows was very wide, and the dust of the fields
from the heath-covered plateau had collected there. After the rains had
changed this dust into soil, among the seeds wafted thither by the wind
was a bramble, which, making the most of this shallow soil, had taken
root therein; it was of the hardy variety known as the fox-blackberry,
and now in August it was covered with berries, and one of its branches,
pushing its way through the window, hung down almost to the floor.
Gros-Alain to the discovery of the string and the cart added that of
the blackberry-vine. He went up to it, picked off a berry, and ate it.
"I am hungry," said René-Jean. And Georgette, galloping on her hands
and knees, lost no time in making her appearance on the scene.
The three together soon stripped the branch and devoured all the fruit;
staining their faces and hands with the purple juices and laughing
aloud in their glee, these three little seraphs were speedily turned
into three little fauns, who would have horrified Dante and charmed
Virgil.
Occasionally the thorns pricked their fingers. Every pleasure has its
price.
Pointing to the bush, and holding out her finger, on which stood a tiny
drop of blood, Georgette said to René-Jean,--
"Prick."
Gros-Alain, who had also pricked himself, looked suspiciously at the
bush, and cried out,--
"It is a beast."
"No, it's a stick," replied René-Jean.
"Sticks are wicked, then," remarked Gros-Alain.
Again Georgette would have liked to cry, but she decided to laugh.
[Illustration 102]
V.
Meanwhile René-Jean, jealous perhaps of the discoveries of his younger
brother Gros-Alain, had conceived a grand project. For some time past,
while he had been gathering the berries and pricking his fingers, his
eyes had turned frequently towards the reading-desk, which, raised on
a pivot, stood alone like a monument in the middle of the library. On
this desk was displayed the famous volume of Saint Bartholomew.
It was really a magnificent and remarkable quarto. It had been
published at Cologne by Bloeuw, or Coesius, as he was called in Latin,
the famous publisher of the Bible of 1682. It was printed, not on Dutch
paper, but on that fine Arabian paper, so much admired by Édrisi,
manufactured from silk and cotton, which always retains its whiteness;
the binding was of gilded leather, and the clasps of silver; the
fly-leaves were of that parchment which the Parisian parchment-sellers
swore to buy at the hall Saint-Mathurin "and nowhere else." This
volume was full of wood-cuts, engravings on copper, and geographical
maps of many countries; it contained a preface consisting of a protest
from the printers, paper-manufacturers, and book-sellers against the
edict of 1635, which imposed a tax on "leather, beer, cloven-footed
animals, sea-fish, and paper," and on the back of the frontispiece was
a dedication to the Gryphs, who rank in Lyons with the Elzévirs in
Amsterdam. And all this had combined to produce a famous copy almost as
rare as the "Apostol" of Moscow.
It was a beautiful book, and for that reason René-Jean gazed at
it--too long, perhaps. The volume lay open just at the large engraving
which represented Saint Bartholomew carrying his skin on his arm.
This print could be seen from below, and when the berries were eaten,
René-Jean gazed steadily at it with all his longing and greedy eyes;
and Georgette, whose eyes had taken the same direction, spied the
engraving, and exclaimed,--
"Picsure."
This word seemed to decide René-Jean. Then to the unbounded surprise of
Gros-Alain a most remarkable proceeding took place.
In one corner of the library stood a large oaken chair. René-Jean went
up to this chair, seized it, and dragged it across the room all alone
by himself to the desk, then pushing it close up to the latter, he
climbed upon it and put both his fists on the book.
Having reached the height of his ambition, he felt that it behooved
him to be generous; so taking the "picsure" by the upper corner he
carefully tore it in two,--the tear crossing the saint diagonally,
which was a pity; but that was no fault of René-Jean. The entire left
side, one eye, and a fragment of the halo of this old apocryphal
evangelist were left in the book; he offered Georgette the other half
of the saint and the whole of his skin. Georgette, as she received it,
remarked,--
"Momomme."
"Me too!" cried Gros-Alain.
The tearing out of the first page is like the first shedding of blood
in battle; it decides the carnage.
René-Jean turned over the page; next to the saint came the commentator,
Pantoenus; he bestowed Pantoenus upon Gros-Alain.
Meanwhile, Georgette had torn her large piece into two smaller ones,
and then the two into four; thus it might have been recorded in history
that Saint-Bartholomew, after being flayed in Armenia, was quartered in
Brittany.
VI.
The execution finished, Georgette held out her hand to René-Jean for
more.
After the saint and his commentator came the frowning portraits of the
glossarists. First came Gavantus; René-Jean tore him out and placed him
in Georgettes hand.
A similar fate befell all the commentators of Saint-Bartholomew.
The act of giving imparts a sense of superiority. René-Jean kept
nothing for himself. He knew that Gros-Alain and Georgette were
watching him, and that was enough for him; he was satisfied with the
admiration of his audience. René-Jean, inexhaustible in his magnificent
generosity, offered Fabricius and Pignatelli to Gros-Alain, and Father
Stilting to Georgette; Alphonse Tostat to Gros-Alain, _Cornelius a
Lapide_ to Georgette; Gros-Alain had Henry Hammond, and Georgette
Father Roberti, together with an old view of the city of Douai, where
the latter was born in 1619; Gros-Alain received the protest of the
paper-manufacturers, while Georgette obtained the dedication to the
Gryphs. And then came the maps, which René-Jean also distributed. He
gave Ethiopia to Gros-Alain, and Lycaonia to Georgette; after which he
threw the book on the floor.
This was an awful moment. With mingled feelings of ecstasy and awe,
Gros-Alain and Georgette saw René-Jean frown, stiffen his limbs,
clench his fists, and push the massive quarto off the desk. It is
really quite tragical to see a stably old book treated with such
disrespect. The heavy volume, pushed from its resting-place, hung a
moment on the edge of the desk, hesitating, as if it were trying to
keep its balance; then it fell, crumpled and torn, with disjointed
clasps and loosened from its binding, all flattened out upon the floor.
Luckily, it did not fall on the children.
They were startled, but not crushed. The results of conquest have
sometimes proved more fatal.
Like all glories, it was accompanied by a loud noise and a cloud of
dust.
Having upset the book, René-Jean now came down from the chair.
For a moment, silence and dismay prevailed; for victory has its
terrors. The three children clung to one another's hands and gazed from
a distance upon the ruins of this monstrous volume.
After a brief pause, However, Gros-Alain went up to it with an air of
determination and gave it a kick.
This was quite enough; the appetite for destruction is never sated.
René-Jean gave it a kick too, and Georgette gave it another, which
landed her on the floor, but in a sitting position, of which she at
once took advantage to throw herself on Saint Bartholomew. All respect
was now at an end. René-Jean and Gros-Alain pounced upon it, jubilant,
wild with excitement, triumphant, and pitiless, tearing the prints,
slashing the leaves, tearing out the markers, scratching the binding,
detaching the gilded leather, pulling the nails from the silver
corners, breaking the parchment, defacing the noble text,--working with
hands, feet, nails, and teeth; rosy, laughing, and fierce, they fell
upon the defenceless evangelist like three angels of prey.
They annihilated Armenia, Judea, and Benevento, where the relics of the
saint are to be found; Nathanael, who is supposed by some authorities
to be the same as Bartholomew; Pope Gelasius, who declared the Gospel
of Nathanael-Bartholomew apocryphal; and every portrait and map.
Indeed, they were so utterly engrossed in their pitiless destruction of
the old book, that a mouse ran by unobserved.
It might well be called extermination.
To cut to pieces history, legend, science, miracles true or false,
ecclesiastical Latin, superstition, fanaticism, and mysteries,--thus
to tear a whole religion to tatters,--might be considered a work of
time for three giants. And even for three children it was no small
matter; they labored for hours, but at last they conquered, and nothing
remained of Saint-Bartholomew.
When they came to the end, when the last page was detached and the
last print thrown on the floor, when all that was left in the skeleton
binding were fragments of text and tattered portraits, René-Jean rose
to his feet, looked at the floor all strewn with scattered leaves, and
clapped his hands in triumph.
Gros-Alain immediately did the same.
Georgette rose, picked up a leaf from the floor, leaned against the
window-sill, that was just on a level with her chin, and began to tear
the big page into tiny bits and throw them out of the window.
When René-Jean and Gros-Alain saw what she was doing, they were at once
eager to follow her example; and picking up the pages, they tore them
over and over again, page by page, and threw the fragments outside the
window as she had done. Thus almost the whole of that ancient book,
torn by those destructive little fingers, went flying to the winds.
Georgette dreamily watched the fluttering groups of tiny white papers
blown about by every wind, and cried,--
"Butterflies."
And here ended the massacre, its last traces vanishing in thin air.
[Illustration 103]
VII.
Thus for the second time was Saint Bartholomew put to death,--he who
had already suffered martyrdom in the year of our Lord 49.
Meanwhile the evening was drawing on, and as the heat increased a
certain drowsiness pervaded the atmosphere. Georgette's eyes were
growing heavy; René-Jean went to his crib, pulled out the sack of
straw that served him for a mattress, dragged it to the window, and
stretching himself out upon it, said, "Let us go to bed."
Gros-Alain leaned his head against René-Jean, Georgette laid hers on
Gros-Alain, and thus the three culprits fell sound asleep.
Warm breezes stole in at the open windows; the scent of wild-flowers
borne upon the wind from the ravines and hills mingled with the
breath of evening; Nature lay calm and sympathetic; radiance, peace,
and love pervaded the world; the sunlight touched each object with a
soft caress; and one felt in every pore of his being the harmony that
springs from the profound tenderness of inanimate things. Infinity
holds within itself the essence of motherhood; creation is a miracle in
full bloom, whose magnitude is perfected by its benevolence. One seemed
to be conscious of an invisible presence exercising its mysterious
influence in the dread conflict between created beings, protecting
the helpless against the powerful; beauty meanwhile on every side,
its splendor only to be equalled by its tenderness. The landscape,
calm and peaceful, displayed the enchanting hazy effects of light and
shade over the fields and river; the smoke rose upwards to the clouds,
like reveries melting into dreams; flocks of birds circled above the
Tourgue; the swallows peeped in at the windows, as much as to say,
"We have come to see if the children are sleeping comfortably." And
pure and lovable they looked as they lay motionless, prettily grouped,
like little half-naked Cupids, their united ages amounting to less
than nine years. Vague smiles hovered round their lips, reflecting
dreams of Paradise. Perchance Almighty God was whispering in their
ears, since they were of those whom all human tongues unite to call
the weak and the blessed. Theirs was the innocence that commands
veneration. All was silent, as if the breath that stirred those tender
bosoms were the business of the universe, and all creation paused to
listen; not a leaf rustled, not a blade of grass quivered. It seemed
as if the wide starry universe held its breath lest these three lowly
but angelic slumberers should be disturbed; and nothing could be more
sublime than the impressive reverence of Nature in the presence of this
insignificance.
The declining sun had nearly reached the horizon, when suddenly, amid
this profound peace, lightning flashed from the forest, followed by a
savage report. A cannon had just been fired. The echoes seized this
sound, and magnified it to a dreadful din, and so frightful was the
prolonged reverberation from hill to hill that it roused Georgette.
She raised her head a little, lifted her finger, listened, then said,--
"Boom!"
The noise ceased, and silence returned again. Georgette put her head
back on Gros-Alain, and fell asleep again.
[Illustration 104]
[Illustration: The Mother 105]