butto
lie
down
,
then
and
there
,
where
she
was
,
beneath
the
ice‐dropping
trees
,
and
let
the
sleep
that
weighed
so
heavily
on
her
eyelids
come
,
dreamless
and
painless
,
and
there
would
be
an
end
of
all
for
her
,
as
for
the
frozen
rabbits
and
the
birds
that
strewed
the
upland
meadows
,
starved
and
stiff
.
She
did
not
know
;
—
and
had
she
known
,
wretched
though
existence
was
to
her
,
death
would
not
have
allured
her
.
She
saw
that
the
dead
might
be
slapped
on
their
cheek
,
and
could
not
lift
their
arm
to
strike
again
—
a
change
that
would
not
give
her
vengeance
could
have
had
no
sweetness
and
no
succour
for
her
.
The
change
she
wanted
was
to
live
,
not
to
die
.
By
tedious
and
painful
efforts
,
she
dragged
herself
home
by
the
way
of
the
lanes
and
pastures
;
hungry
,
lame
,
bleeding
,
cold
and
miserable
,
with
her
eyes
burning
,
and
her
hands
and
her
head
hot
with
fever
.
She
made
her
way
into
the
mill‐yard
and
tried
to
commence
her
first
morning’s
work
;
the
drawing
of
water
from
the
well
for
the
beasts
and
for
the
house
,
and
the
sweeping
down
of
the
old
wide
court
round
which
the
sheds
and
storehouses
ran
.
She
never
dreamed
of
asking
either
for
food
or
pity
,
either
for
sympathy
or
remission
of
her
labours
.
She
set
to
work
at
once
,
but
for
the
only
time
since
Phratos
had
brought
her
thither
,
the
strength
and
vigour
of
her
frame
had
been
beaten
.
She
was
sick
and
weak
;
her
hand
sank
off
the
handle
of
the
windlass
;
and
she
dropped
stupidly
on
the
stone
edge
of
the
well
,
and
sat
there
leaning
her
head
on
her
hands
.
The
mastiff
came
and
licked
her
face
tenderly
.
The
pigeons
left
the
meal
flung
to
them
on
the
snow
,
and
flew
merrily
about
her
head
in
pretty
fluttering
caresses
.
The
lean
cat
came
and
rubbed
its
cheek
softly
against
her
,
purring
all
the
while
.
The
woman
Pitchou
saw
her
,
and
she
called
out
of
the
window
to
her
master
.
“
Flamma
!
there
is
thy
gad‐about
,
who
has
not
been
a’
bed
all
night
.
”
The
old
man
heard
,
and
came
out
of
his
mill
to
the
well
in
the
courtyard
.
“
Where
hast
been
?
”
he
asked
sharply
of
her
.
“
Pitchou
says
thou
hast
not
lain
in
thy
bed
all
night
long
.
Is
it
so
?
”
Folle‐Farine
lifted
her
head
slowly
,
with
a
dazed
stupid
pain
in
the
look
of
her
eyes
.
“
Yes
,
it
is
true
,
”
she
answered
,
doggedly
.
“
And
where
hast
been
then
?
”
he
asked
,
through
his
clenched
teeth
;
enraged
that
his
servant
had
been
quicker
of
eye
and
ear
than
himself
.
A
little
of
her
old
dauntless
defiance
gleamed
in
her
face
through
its
stupor
and
langour
,
as
she
replied
to
him
with
effort
in
brief
phrases
.
“
I
went
after
old
Manon
Dax
,
to
give
her
my
supper
.
She
died
in
the
road
,
and
I
carried
her
home
.
And
the
youngest
child
was
dead
too
.
I
stayed
there
because
the
children
were
alone
;
I
called
to
Flandrin
and
told
him
;
he
came
with
his
wife
and
other
women
,
and
they
said
I
had
killed
old
Dax
;
they
set
on
me
,
and
beat
me
,
and
pricked
me
for
a
witch
.
It
is
no
matter
.
But
it
made
me
late
.
”
In
her
glance
upward
,
even
in
the
curtness
of
her
words
,
there
was
an
unconscious
glimmer
of
appeal
,
a
vague
fancy
that
for
once
she
might
,
perhaps
,
meet
with
approval
and
sympathy
,
instead
of
punishment
and
contempt
.
She
had
never
heard
a
kind
word
from
him
,
nor
one
of
any
compassion
,
and
yet
a
dim
unuttered
hope
was
in
her
heart
,
that
for
once
he
might
condemn
her
persecutors
and
pardon
her
.
But
the
hope
was
a
vain
one
,
like
all
which
she
had
cherished
since
first
the
door
of
the
mill‐house
had
opened
to
admit
her
.
Flamma
only
set
his
teeth
tighter
.
In
his
own
soul
he
had
been
almost
ashamed
of
his
denial
to
his
old
neighbour
,
and
had
almost
feared
,
that
it
would
lose
him
the
good
will
of
that
good
heaven
which
sent
him
so
mercifully
such
a
sharp
year
of
famine
to
enrich
him
.
Therefore
,
it
infuriated
him
,
to
think
that
this
offspring
of
a
foul
sin
should
have
had
pity
and
charity
,
where
he
had
lacked
them
.
He
looked
at
her
and
saw
with
grim
glee
,
that
she
was
black
and
blue
with
bruises
,
and
that
the
linen
which
she
held
together
across
her
bosom
had
been
stained
with
blood
.
“
Flandrin
and
his
wife
are
honest
people
,
and
pious
,
”
he
said
,
in
answer
to
her
.
“
When
they
find
a
wench
out
of
her
bed
at
night
,
they
deal
rightly
with
her
,
and
do
not
hearken
to
any
lies
that
she
may
tell
them
of
feigned
alms‐giving
to
cover
her
vices
from
their
sight
.
I
thank
them
that
they
did
so
much
of
my
work
for
me
.
They
might
well
prick
thee
for
a
witch
;
but
they
will
never
cut
so
deep
into
thy
breast
,
as
to
be
able
to
dig
the
mark
of
the
devil
out
of
it
.
Now
,
up
and
work
,
or
it
will
be
worse
for
thee
.
”
She
obeyed
him
.
There
during
the
dark
winter’s
day
,
the
pain
which
she
endured
,
with
her
hunger
and
the
cold
of
the
weather
,
made
her
fall
thrice
,
like
a
dead
thing
,
on
the
snow
of
the
court
,
and
the
floors
of
the
sheds
.
But
she
lay
insensible
till
the
youth
in
her
brought
back
consciousness
,
without
aid
;
in
those
moments
of
faintness
,
no
one
noticed
her
save
the
dog
,
who
came
and
crept
to
her
to
give
her
warmth
,
and
strove
to
wake
her
with
the
kisses
of
his
rough
tongue
.
She
did
her
work
as
best
she
might
;
neither
Flamma
nor
his
servant
once
spoke
to
her
.
“
My
women
dealt
somewhat
roughly
with
thy
wench
at
break
of
day
,
good
Flamma
,
”
said
the
man
Flandrin
,
meeting
him
in
the
lane
that
afternoon
,
and
fearful
of
offending
the
shrewd
old
man
who
had
so
many
of
his
neighbours
in
his
grip
.
“
I
hope
thou
wilt
not
take
it
amiss
?
The
girl
maddened
my
dame
—
spitting
on
her
Peter
,
and
throwing
the
blessed
image
away
in
a
ditch
.
”
“
The
woman
did
well
,
”
said
Flamma
coldly
,
driving
his
grey
mare
onward
through
the
fog
.
Flandrin
could
not
tell
whether
he
were
content
,
or
were
displeased
.
Claudis
Flamma
hardly
knew
which
he
was
,
himself
;
he
held
her
as
the
very
spawn
of
hell
itself
,
and
yet
it
was
loathsome
to
him
,
that
his
neighbours
should
also
know
,
and
say
,
that
a
devil
had
been
the
only
fruit
of
that
fair
offspring
of
his
own
,
whom
he
and
they
had
so
long
held
as
a
saint
.
The
next
day
and
the
next
,
and
the
next
again
after
that
,
she
was
too
ill
to
stir
;
they
beat
her
and
called
her
names
,
but
it
was
of
no
use
;
they
could
not
get
work
out
of
her
;
she
was
past
it
,
and
beyond
all
rousing
of
their
sticks
,
or
of
their
words
.
They
were
obliged
to
let
her
be
.
She
stayed
for
nearly
four
days
in
the
hay
in
her
loft
;
devoured
with
fever
,
and
with
every
bone
and
muscle
in
pain
.
She
had
a
pitcher
of
water
by
her
and
drank
continually
,
thirstily
,
like
a
sick
dog
.
With
rest
and
no
medicine
but
the
cold
spring
water
,
she
recovered
:
she
had
been
delirious
in
a
few
of
the
hours
,
and
had
dreamed
of
nothing
but
of
the
old
life
in
the
Liébana
,
and
of
the
old
sweet
music
of
Phratos
.
She
remained
there
untended
,
shivering
and
fever‐stricken
,
until
the
strength
of
her
youth
returned
to
her
.
She
rose
on
the
fifth
day
weaker
,
but
otherwise
little
the
worse
;
with
the
soft
sad
songs
of
her
old
friend
the
viol
ringing
always
through
her
brain
.
The
fifth
day
from
the
death
of
Manon
Dax
,
was
the
day
of
the
new
year
.
There
was
no
work
being
done
at
the
mill
;
the
wheel
stood
still
,
locked
fast
,
for
the
deep
stream
was
close
bound
in
ice
;
frost
had
returned
,
and
the
country
was
white
with
snow
two
feet
deep
,
and
bleak
and
bare
,
and
rioted
over
by
furious
cross
winds
.
Flamma
and
Pitchou
were
in
the
kitchen
when
she
entered
it
;
they
looked
up
,
but
neither
spoke
to
her
.
In
being
ill
—
for
the
first
time
since
they
had
had
to
do
with
her
,
—
she
had
committed
,
for
the
millionth
time
,
a
crime
.
There
was
no
welcome
for
her
in
that
cheerless
place
,
where
scarcely
a
spark
of
fire
was
allowed
to
brighten
the
heart
,
and
where
the
hens
,
straying
in
from
without
,
sat
with
ruffled
feathers
,
chilled
and
moping
,
and
where
the
Black
Forest
clock
in
the
corner
,
had
stopped
from
the
intense
cold
.
There
was
no
welcome
for
her
—
she
went
out
into
the
air
,
thinking
the
woods
,
even
at
midwinter
,
could
not
be
so
lonesome
as
was
the
cheerless
house
.
The
sun
was
shining
through
a
rift
in
the
stormy
clouds
,
and
the
white
roofs
,
and
the
ice‐crusted
waters
,
and
the
frosted
trees
,
were
glittering
in
its
light
.
There
were
many
dead
birds
about
the
paths
.
Claudis
Flamma
had
thought
their
famine‐time
a
good
one
,
in
which
to
tempt
them
with
poisoned
grain
.
She
wondered
where
the
dog
was
who
never
had
failed
to
greet
her
,
—
a
yard
farther
on
she
saw
him
.
He
was
stretched
stiff
and
lifeless
beside
the
old
barrel
that
had
served
him
as
a
kennel
;
his
master
had
begrudged
him
the
little
straw
needful
to
keep
him
from
the
hurricanes
of
those
bitter
nights
;
and
he
had
perished
quietly
,
without
a
moan
,
like
a
sentinel
slain
at
his
post
—
frozen
to
death
in
his
old
age
after
a
life
of
faithfulness
repaid
with
blows
.
She
stood
by
him
a
while
with
dry
eyes
,
but
with
an
aching
heart
.
He
had
loved
her
,
and
she
had
loved
him
;
and
many
a
time
she
had
risked
a
stroke
of
the
lash
to
save
it
from
his
body
;
and
many
a
time
she
had
sobbed
herself
to
sleep
in
her
earlier
years
,
with
her
arms
curled
round
him
,
as
round
her
only
friend
and
only
comrade
in
bondage
and
in
misery
.
She
stooped
down
;
kissed
him
softly
on
his
broad
grizzled
forehead
,
and
lifted
his
corpse
into
a
place
of
shelter
,
and
covered
it
tenderly
,
so
that
he
should
not
be
left
to
the
crows
and
the
kites
,
until
she
should
be
able
to
make
his
grave
in
those
orchards
in
which
he
had
loved
so
well
to
wander
,
and
in
which
he
and
she
had
spent
all
their
brief
hours
of
summer
liberty
and
leisure
.
She
shuddered
as
she
looked
her
last
on
him
;
and
filled
in
the
snow
above
his
tomb
,
under
the
old
twisted
pear
tree
,
beneath
which
,
he
and
she
had
so
often
sat
together
in
the
long
grasses
,
consoling
one
another
for
scant
fare
and
cruel
blows
by
the
exquisite
mute
sympathy
which
can
exist
betwixt
the
canine
and
the
human
animal
when
the
two
are
alone
,
and
love
and
trust
each
other
,
only
,
out
of
all
the
world
.
Whilst
the
dog
had
lived
,
she
had
had
two
friends
;
now
that
he
slept
for
ever
in
the
old
grey
orchard
,
she
had
but
one
left
.
She
went
to
seek
this
one
.
Her
heart
ached
for
a
kind
glance
—
for
a
word
that
should
be
neither
of
hatred
or
of
scorn
.
It
was
seldom
that
she
allowed
herself
to
know
such
a
weakness
.
She
had
dauntless
blood
in
her
;
she
came
of
a
people
that
despised
pity
,
and
who
knew
how
to
live
hard
,
and
to
die
hard
,
without
murmur
or
appeal
.
Yet
she
had
clung
to
the
old
mastiff
,
who
was
savage
to
all
save
herself
;
so
she
still
clung
to
the
old
man
Marcellin
who
to
all
save
herself
was
a
terror
and
a
name
of
foul
omen
.
He
was
good
to
her
in
his
own
fierce
and
rugged
way
;
and
they
had
the
kinship
of
the
proscribed
;
and
they
loved
one
another
in
a
strange
,
silent
,
savage
manner
,
as
a
yearling
wolf
cub
and
an
aged
grizzled
bear
might
love
each
other
in
the
depths
of
forest
,
where
the
foot
of
the
hunter
and
the
fangs
of
the
hound
were
alike
against
the
young
and
the
old
.
She
had
not
seen
him
for
six
days
.
She
felt
ill
,
and
weak
,
and
cold
,
and
alone
.
She
thought
she
would
go
to
him
in
his
hut
,
and
sit
a
little
by
his
lonely
hearth
,
and
hear
him
tell
strange
stories
of
the
marvelous
time
when
he
was
young
,
and
the
world
was
drunk
with
a
mad
sweet
dream
which
had
never
come
true
upon
earth
.
Her
heart
was
in
wild
revolt
,
and
a
fierce
futile
hate
gnawed
ever
in
it
.
She
had
become
used
to
the
indignities
of
the
populace
,
and
the
insults
of
all
the
people
who
went
to
and
fro
her
grandsire’s
place
;
but
each
one
pierced
deeper
and
deeper
than
the
last
,
and
left
a
longer
scar
,
and
killed
more
and
more
of
the
gentler
and
better
instincts
which
had
survived
in
her
through
all
the
brutalising
debasement
of
her
life
.
She
could
not
avenge
the
outrage
of
Rose
Flandrin
and
her
sisterhood
,
and
being
unable
to
avenge
it
,
she
shut
her
mouth
and
said
nothing
of
it
,
as
her
habit
was
.
Nevertheless
it
festered
and
rankled
in
her
;
and
now
and
then
the
thought
crossed
her
—
why
not
take
a
flint
and
a
bit
of
tow
,
and
burn
them
all
in
their
beds
as
they
slept
in
that
little
hollow
at
the
foot
of
the
hill
?
She
thought
of
it
often
—
would
she
ever
do
it
?
She
did
not
know
.
It
had
a
taint
of
cowardice
in
it
;
yet
a
man
that
very
winter
had
fired
a
farmstead
for
far
less
an
injury
,
and
had
burned
to
death
all
who
had
lain
therein
that
night
.
Why
should
she
not
kill
and
burn
these
also
?
They
had
never
essayed
to
teach
her
to
do
better
,
and
when
she
had
tried
to
do
good
to
one
of
them
,
the
others
had
set
on
her
as
a
witch
.
In
the
afternoon
of
this
first
day
of
the
year
she
had
to
pass
through
their
hamlet
to
seek
Marcellin
.
The
sun
was
low
and
red
;
the
dusky
light
glowered
over
the
white
meadows
and
through
the
leafless
twilight
of
the
woods
;
here
and
there
a
solitary
tree
of
holly
reared
itself
,
scarlet
and
tall
,
from
the
snowdrifts
;
here
and
there
a
sheaf
of
arrowy
reeds
pierced
the
sheets
of
ice
that
covered
all
the
streams
and
pools
.
The
little
village
lay
with
its
dark
round
roofs
,
cosy
and
warm
,
with
all
the
winter
round
.
She
strode
through
it
erect
,
and
flashing
her
scornful
eyes
right
and
left
;
but
her
right
hand
was
inside
her
skirt
.
For
such
was
the
lesson
which
the
reward
for
her
charity
had
taught
her
—
a
lesson
not
lightly
to
be
forgotten
,
nor
swiftly
to
be
unlearned
again
.
In
its
simple
mode
,
the
little
place
,
like
its
greater
neighbours
,
kept
high
festival
for
a
fresh
year
begun
.
Its
crucifix
rose
,
bare
and
white
,
out
of
a
crown
of
fir
boughs
and
many
wreaths
of
ruddy
berries
.
On
its
cabin
windows
the
light
of
wood
cracking
and
blazing
within
glowed
brightly
.
Through
them
she
saw
many
of
their
interiors
as
she
went
by
in
the
shadow
without
.
In
one
the
children
knelt
in
a
circle
round
the
fire
,
roasting
chestnuts
in
the
embers
with
gay
shouts
of
laughter
.
In
another
,
they
romped
with
their
big
sheepdog
,
decking
him
with
garlands
of
ivy
and
laurel
.
In
one
little
brown
room
a
betrothal
party
made
merry
;
in
another
,
that
was
bright
with
Dutch
tiles
,
and
hug
round
with
dried
herbs
and
fruits
,
an
old
matron
had
her
arm
round
the
curly
head
of
a
sailor
lad
,
home
for
a
short
glad
hour
.
In
the
house
of
Flandrin
a
huge
soup‐pot
smoked
with
savoury
odour
,
and
the
eyes
of
his
wife
were
soft
with
a
tender
mirth
as
she
watched
her
youngest‐born
playing
with
a
Punch
,
all
bells
and
bright
colours
,
and
saw
the
elder
ones
cluster
round
a
gilded
Jesus
of
sugar
.
In
the
wine‐shop
,
the
keeper
of
it
,
having
taken
to
himself
a
wife
that
day
,
kept
open
house
to
his
friends
,
and
he
and
they
were
dancing
to
the
music
of
a
horn
and
a
fiddle
,
under
rafters
bedecked
with
branches
of
fir
,
with
many‐hued
ribands
,
and
with
little
oil‐lamps
that
blew
to
and
fro
in
the
noise
of
the
romp
.
And
all
round
were
the
dark
still
woods
,
and
in
the
midst
rose
the
crucifix
;
and
above
,
on
the
height
of
the
hill
,
the
little
old
hut
of
Manon
Dax
stood
dark
and
empty
.
She
looked
at
it
all
,
going
through
it
,
with
her
hand
on
her
knife
.
“
One
spark
,
”
she
thought
,
playing
with
the
grim
temptation
that
possessed
her
—
“
one
spark
on
the
dry
thatch
,
and
what
a
bonfire
they
would
have
for
their
feasting
!
”
The
thought
was
sweet
to
her
.
Injustice
had
made
her
ravenous
and
savage
.
When
she
had
tried
to
do
well
,
and
to
save
life
,
these
people
had
accused
her
of
taking
it
by
evil
sorcery
.
She
felt
a
longing
to
show
them
what
evil
indeed
she
could
do
,
and
to
see
them
burn
,
and
to
hear
them
scream
vainly
,
and
then
to
say
to
them
with
a
laugh
,
as
the
flames
licked
up
their
homes
and
their
lives
,
“
Another
time
,
take
care
how
you
awake
a
witch
!
”
Why
did
she
not
do
it
?
She
did
not
know
;
she
had
brought
out
a
flint
and
tinder
in
the
pouch
that
hung
at
her
side
.
It
would
be
as
easy
as
to
pluck
a
sere
leaf
;
she
knew
that
.
She
stood
still
and
played
with
her
fancy
,
and
it
was
horrible
and
sweet
to
her
—
so
sweet
because
so
horrible
.
How
soon
their
mirth
would
be
stilled
!
As
she
stood
thinking
,
there
,
and
in
her
fancy
seeing
the
red
glare
that
would
light
up
that
peaceful
place
,
and
hearing
the
roar
of
the
lurid
flames
that
would
drown
the
music
,
and
the
laughter
,
and
the
children’s
shouts
,
out
of
the
twilight
there
rose
to
her
a
small
dark
thing
,
with
a
halo
round
its
head
:
the
thing
was
Bernardou
,
and
the
halo
was
the
shine
of
his
curling
hair
in
the
lingering
light
.
He
caught
her
skirts
in
his
hands
,
and
clung
to
her
and
sobbed
.
“
I
know
you
—
you
were
good
that
night
.
The
people
all
say
you
are
wicked
,
but
you
gave
us
your
food
,
and
held
my
hand
.
Take
me
back
to
gran’mère
—
oh
,
take
me
back
!
”
She
was
startled
and
bewildered
.
This
child
had
never
mocked
her
,
but
he
had
screamed
and
run
from
her
in
terror
,
and
had
been
told
a
score
of
stories
that
she
was
a
devil
,
who
could
kill
his
body
and
soul
.
“
She
is
dead
,
Bernardou
,
”
she
answered
him
;
and
her
voice
was
troubled
,
and
sounded
strangely
to
her
as
she
spoke
for
the
first
time
to
a
child
without
being
derided
or
screamed
at
in
fear
.
“
Dead
!
What
is
that
?
”
sobbed
the
boy
.
“
She
was
stiff
and
cold
,
I
know
,
and
they
put
her
in
a
hole
;
but
she
would
waken
,
I
know
she
would
,
if
she
only
heard
us
.
We
never
cried
in
the
night
but
she
heard
in
her
sleep
,
and
got
up
and
came
to
us
.
Oh
,
do
tell
her
—
do
,
do
tell
her
!
”
She
was
silent
;
she
did
not
know
how
to
answer
him
,
and
the
strangeness
of
any
human
appeal
made
to
her
bewildered
her
and
made
her
mute
.
“
Why
are
you
out
in
the
cold
,
Bernardou
?
”
she
asked
him
suddenly
,
glancing
backward
through
the
lattice
of
the
Flandrins’
house
,
through
which
she
could
see
the
infants
laughing
and
shaking
the
puppet
with
gilded
bells
.
“
They
beat
me
;
they
say
I
am
naughty
,
because
I
want
gran’mère
,
”
he
said
,
with
a
sob
.
“
they
beat
me
often
,
and
oh
!
if
she
knew
,
she
would
wake
and
come
.
Do
tell
her
—
do
!
Bernardou
will
be
so
good
,
and
never
vex
her
,
if
only
she
will
come
back
!
”
His
piteous
voice
was
drowned
in
tears
.
His
little
life
had
been
hard
;
scant
fare
,
cold
winds
,
and
naked
limbs
had
been
his
portion
;
yet
the
life
had
been
bright
and
gleeful
to
him
,
clinging
to
his
grandam’s
skirts
as
she
washed
at
the
tub
or
hoed
in
the
cabbage‐ground
,
catching
her
smile
when
he
brought
her
the
first
daisy
of
the
year
,
running
always
to
her
open
arms
in
any
hurt
,
sinking
to
sleep
always
with
the
singing
of
her
old
ballads
on
his
ear
.
It
had
been
a
little
life
,
dear
,
glad
,
kindly
,
precious
to
him
,
and
he
wept
for
it
;
refusing
to
be
comforted
by
sight
of
a
gilded
puppet
in
another’s
hand
,
or
a
sugared
Jesus
in
another’s
mouth
,
as
they
expected
him
to
be
.
It
is
the
sort
of
comfort
that
is
always
offered
to
the
homeless
,
and
they
are
always
thought
ungrateful
if
they
will
not
be
consoled
by
it
.
“
I
wish
I
could
take
you
,
Bernardou
!
”
Folle‐Farine
murmured
,
with
a
momentary
softness
that
was
exquisitely
tender
in
its
contrast
to
her
haughty
and
fierce
temper
.
“
I
wish
I
could
.
”
For
one
wild
instant
the
thought
came
to
her
to
break
from
her
bonds
,
and
take
this
creature
who
was
as
lonely
as
herself
,
and
to
wander
away
and
away
into
that
unknown
land
which
stretched
around
her
,
and
of
which
she
knew
no
more
than
one
of
the
dark
leaves
knew
that
grew
in
the
snow‐filled
ditch
.
But
the
thought
passed
unuttered
;
she
knew
neither
where
to
go
nor
what
to
do
.
Her
few
early
years
in
the
Liébana
were
too
dream‐like
and
too
vaguely
remembered
to
be
any
guide
to
her
;
and
the
world
seemed
only
to
her
in
her
fancies
as
a
vast
plain
,
dreary
and
dismal
,
in
which
every
hand
would
be
against
her
,
and
every
living
thing
be
hostile
to
her
.
Beside
,
the
long
habitude
of
slavery
was
on
her
,
and
it
is
a
yoke
that
eats
into
the
flesh
too
deeply
to
be
wrenched
off
without
many
an
effort
.
As
she
stood
thinking
,
with
the
child’s
eager
hands
clasping
her
skirts
,
a
shrill
voice
called
from
the
woodstack
and
dung‐heap
outside
Flandrin’s
house
:
“
Bernardou
!
Bernardou
!
thou
little
plague
.
Come
within
.
What
dost
do
out
there
in
the
dark
?
Mischief
,
I
will
warrant
.
”
The
speaker
strode
out
,
and
snatched
and
bore
and
clutched
him
away
;
she
was
the
sister
of
Rose
Flandrin
,
who
lived
with
them
,
and
kept
the
place
and
the
children
in
order
.
“
Thou
little
beast
!
”
she
muttered
,
in
fury
.
“
Dost
dare
talk
to
the
witch
that
killed
they
grandmother
?
Thou
shalt
hie
to
bed
,
and
sup
on
a
fine
whipping
.
Thank
God
,
thou
goest
to
the
hospital
tomorrow
!
Thou
woudst
bring
a
dire
curse
on
the
house
in
reward
for
our
alms
to
thee
.
”
She
dragged
him
in
and
slammed‐to
the
door
,
and
his
cries
echoed
above
the
busy
shouts
and
laughter
of
the
Flandrin
family
,
gathered
about
the
tinselled
Punch
and
the
sugared
Jesus
,
and
the
soup‐pot
,
that
stewed
them
a
fat
farm‐yard
goose
for
their
supper
.
Folle‐Farine
listened
awhile
,
with
her
hand
clenched
on
her
knife
;
then
she
toiled
onward
through
the
village
,
and
left
it
and
its
carols
and
carousings
behind
her
in
the
red
glow
of
the
sinking
sun
.
She
thought
no
more
of
setting
their
huts
in
a
blaze
;
the
child’s
words
had
touched
and
softened
her
;
she
remembered
the
long
patient
bitter
life
of
the
woman
who
had
died
of
cold
and
hunger
in
her
eighty‐second
year
,
and
yet
who
had
thus
died
saying
to
the
last
,
“
God
is
good
.
”
“
What
is
their
God
?
”
she
mused
.
“
They
care
for
him
,
and
he
seems
to
care
nothing
for
them
whether
they
be
old
or
young
.
”
Yet
her
heat
was
softened
,
and
she
would
not
fire
the
house
in
which
little
Bernardou
was
sheltered
.
His
was
the
first
gratitude
that
she
had
ever
met
with
,
and
it
was
sweet
to
her
as
the
rare
blossom
of
the
edelweiss
to
the
traveller
upon
the
highest
Alpine
summits
—
a
flower
full
of
promise
,
born
amidst
a
waste
.
The
way
was
long
to
where
Marcellin
dwelt
,
but
she
walked
on
through
the
fields
that
were
in
summer
all
one
scarlet
glow
of
poppies
,
and
were
now
a
white
sheet
of
frozen
water
.
The
day
was
over
,
the
evening
drew
nigh
,
the
sound
of
innumerable
bells
in
the
town
echoed
faintly
from
the
distance
,
over
the
snow
:
all
was
still
.
On
the
night
of
the
new
year
the
people
had
a
care
that
the
cattle
in
the
byers
,
the
sheep
in
the
folds
,
the
dogs
in
the
kennels
,
the
swine
in
the
styes
,
the
old
cart‐horses
in
the
sheds
,
should
have
a
full
meal
and
a
clean
bed
,
and
be
able
to
rejoice
.
In
all
the
country
round
there
were
only
two
that
were
forgotten
—
the
dead
in
their
graves
,
and
the
daughter
of
Taric
.
Folle‐Farine
was
cold
,
hungry
,
and
exhausted
,
for
the
fever
had
left
her
enfeebled
;
and
from
the
coarse
food
of
the
mill‐house
her
weakness
had
turned
.
But
she
walked
on
steadily
.
At
the
hut
where
Marcellin
dwelt
she
knew
that
she
would
be
sure
of
one
welcome
,
one
smile
;
one
voice
that
would
greet
her
kindly
;
one
face
that
would
look
on
her
without
a
frown
.
It
would
not
matter
,
she
thought
,
how
the
winds
should
howl
and
the
hail
drive
,
or
how
the
people
should
be
merry
in
their
homes
and
forgetful
of
her
and
of
him
.
He
and
she
would
sit
together
over
the
little
fire
,
and
give
back
hate
for
hate
and
scorn
for
scorn
,
and
commune
with
each
other
,
and
want
no
other
cheer
or
comrade
.
It
had
been
always
so
since
he
had
first
met
her
at
sunset
amongst
the
poppies
,
then
a
little
child
of
eight
years
old
.
Every
new‐year’s
night
she
had
spent
with
him
in
his
hovel
;
and
in
their
own
mute
way
they
had
loved
one
another
,
and
drawn
closer
together
,
and
been
almost
glad
,
though
often
pitcher
and
platter
had
been
empty
,
and
sometimes
even
the
hearth
had
been
cold
.
She
stepped
bravely
against
the
wind
,
and
over
the
crisp
firm
snow
,
her
spirits
rising
as
she
drew
near
the
only
place
that
had
ever
opened
its
door
gladly
to
her
coming
;
her
heart
growing
lighter
as
she
approached
the
only
creature
to
whom
she
had
ever
spoken
her
thoughts
without
derision
or
told
her
woes
without
condemnation
.
His
hut
stood
by
itself
in
the
midst
of
the
wide
pastures
,
and
by
the
side
of
a
stream
.
A
little
light
was
wont
to
twinkle
at
that
hour
through
the
crevices
of
its
wooden
shutter
;
this
evening
all
was
dark
,
the
outline
of
the
hovel
rose
like
a
rugged
mound
against
the
white
wastes
round
it
.
The
only
sound
was
the
far‐off
chiming
of
the
bells
that
vibrated
strangely
on
the
rarefied
sharp
air
.
She
crossed
the
last
meadow
where
the
sheep
were
folded
for
the
night
,
and
went
to
the
door
and
pushed
against
it
to
open
it
—
it
was
locked
.
She
struck
it
with
her
hand
.
“
Open
,
Marcellin
—
open
quickly
.
It
is
only
I
.
”
There
was
no
answer
.
She
smote
the
wood
more
loudly
,
and
called
to
him
again
.
A
heavy
step
echoed
on
the
mud
floor
within
;
a
match
was
struck
,
a
dull
light
glimmered
;
a
voice
she
did
not
know
muttered
drowsily
,
“
Who
is
there
?
”
“
It
is
I
,
Marcellin
,
”
she
answered
.
“
It
is
not
night
.
I
am
come
to
be
an
hour
with
you
.
Is
anything
amiss
?
”
The
door
opened
slowly
,
an
old
woman
,
whose
face
was
strange
to
her
,
peered
out
into
the
dusk
.
She
had
been
asleep
on
the
settle
by
the
fire
,
and
stared
stupidly
at
the
flame
of
her
own
lamp
.
“
Is
it
the
old
man
,
Marcellin
,
you
want
?
”
she
asked
.
“
Marcellin
,
yes
—
where
is
he
?
”
“
He
died
four
days
ago
.
Get
you
gone
;
I
will
have
no
tramps
about
my
place
.
”
“
Died
!
”
Folle‐Farine
stood
erect
,
without
a
quiver
in
her
face
or
in
her
limbs
;
but
her
teeth
shut
together
like
a
steel
clasp
,
and
all
the
rich
and
golden
hues
of
her
skin
changed
to
a
sickly
ashen
pallor
.
“
Yes
,
why
not
?
”
grumbled
the
old
woman
.
“
To
be
sure
men
said
that
God
would
never
him
die
,
because
he
killed
St.
Louis
;
but
myself
I
never
thought
that
.
I
knew
the
devil
would
not
wait
more
than
a
hundred
years
for
him
—
you
can
never
cheat
the
devil
,
and
he
always
seems
stronger
than
the
saints
—
somehow
.
You
are
that
thing
of
Yprès
,
are
you
not
?
Get
you
gone
!
”
“
Who
are
you
?
Why
are
you
here
?
”
she
gasped
.
Her
right
hand
was
clenched
on
the
door‐post
,
and
her
right
foot
was
set
on
the
threshold
,
so
that
the
door
could
not
be
closed
.
“
I
am
an
honest
woman
and
a
pious
;
and
it
befouls
me
to
dwell
where
he
dwelt
,
”
the
old
peasant
hissed
in
loud
indignation
.
“
I
stood
out
a
whole
day
,
but
when
one
is
poor
and
the
place
is
offered
quit
of
rent
,
what
can
one
do
?
—
and
it
is
roomy
and
airy
for
the
fowls
,
and
the
priest
has
flung
holy
water
about
and
purified
it
,
and
I
have
a
Horse‐shoe
nailed
up
,
and
a
St.
John
in
the
corner
.
But
be
off
with
you
,
and
take
your
foot
from
my
door
.
”
Folle‐Farine
stood
motionless
.
“
When
did
he
die
;
and
how
?
”
she
asked
in
her
teeth
.
“
He
was
found
dead
on
the
road
,
on
his
heap
of
stones
,
the
fourth
night
from
this
,
”
answered
the
old
woman
,
loving
to
hear
her
own
tongue
,
yet
dreading
the
one
to
whom
she
spoke
.
“
Perhaps
he
had
been
hungered
,
I
do
not
know
;
or
more
likely
the
devil
would
not
wait
any
longer
;
anyways
,
he
was
dead
—
the
hammer
in
his
hand
.
Max
Liében
,
the
man
that
travels
with
the
wooden
clocks
,
found
him
.
He
lay
there
all
night
.
Nobody
would
touch
him
.
They
say
they
saw
the
mark
of
the
devil’s
claws
on
him
.
At
last
they
got
a
dung‐cart
,
and
took
him
away
before
the
sun
rose
.
He
died
just
under
the
great
Calvary
—
it
was
like
his
blasphemy
.
They
have
put
him
in
the
common
ditch
.
I
think
it
shame
to
let
the
man
that
slew
a
saint
be
in
the
same
grave
with
all
the
poor
honest
folk
who
feared
God
,
and
were
Christians
though
they
might
be
beggars
and
outcasts
.
Get
you
gone
,
you
be
as
vile
as
he
.
If
you
want
him
go
ask
your
father
the
foul
fiend
for
him
—
they
are
surely
together
now
.
”
And
she
drove
the
door
to
,
and
closed
it
,
and
barred
it
firmly
within
.
“
Not
but
what
the
devil
can
get
through
the
chinks
,
”
she
muttered
,
as
she
turned
the
wick
of
her
lamp
up
higher
.
Folle‐Farine
went
back
over
the
snow
;
blind
,
sick
,
feeling
her
way
through
the
twilight
as
though
it
were
the
darkness
of
night
.
“
He
died
alone
—
he
died
alone
,
”
she
muttered
,
a
thousand
times
,
as
she
crept
shivering
through
the
gloom
;
and
she
knew
that
now
her
own
fate
was
yet
more
desolate
.
She
knew
that
now
she
lived
alone
without
one
friend
on
earth
.
The
death
on
the
open
highway
;
the
numbness
,
and
stillness
,
and
deafness
to
all
the
maledictions
of
men
;
the
shameful
bier
made
at
night
on
the
dung‐cart
,
amidst
loathing
glances
and
muttered
curses
;
the
nameless
grave
in
the
common
ditch
with
the
beggar
,
the
thief
,
the
harlot
,
and
the
murderer
;
—
these
,
which
were
so
awful
to
all
others
,
seemed
to
her
as
sweet
as
to
sink
to
sleep
on
soft
unshorn
grass
,
whilst
rose
leaves
are
shaken
in
the
wind
,
and
fall
as
gently
as
kisses
upon
the
slumberer
.
For
she
in
her
youth
and
in
the
splendour
of
her
strength
,
and
in
the
blossom
of
her
beauty
,
gorgeous
as
a
passion‐
flower
in
the
sun
,
envied
bitterly
the
old
man
who
had
died
at
his
work
on
the
public
road
,
hated
by
his
kind
,
and
weighted
with
the
burden
of
nigh
a
hundred
years
.
Since
his
death
was
not
more
utterly
lonely
and
desolate
than
was
her
life
;
and
to
all
taunts
and
to
all
curses
the
ears
of
the
dead
are
deaf
.
BOOK
III
.
“
L’Artiste
est
un
dieu
tombé
,
qui
se
souvient
du
temps
quand
il
créa
un
monde
.
”
CHAPTER
I
.
NIGHT
had
come
;
a
dark
night
of
earliest
spring
.
The
wild
day
had
sobbed
itself
to
sleep
after
a
restless
life
with
fitful
breath
of
storm
and
many
sighs
of
shuddering
breezes
.
The
sun
had
sunk
,
leaving
lone
tracks
of
blood‐red
light
across
one‐half
the
heavens
.
There
was
a
sharp
crisp
coldness
as
of
lingering
frost
in
the
gloom
and
the
dulness
.
Heavy
clouds
,
as
yet
unbroken
,
hung
over
the
cathedral
and
the
clustering
roofs
around
it
in
dark
and
starless
splendour
.
Over
the
great
still
plains
which
stretched
eastward
and
southward
,
black
with
the
furrows
of
the
scarce‐budded
corn
,
the
wind
blew
hard
;
blowing
the
river
and
the
many
streamlets
spreading
from
it
into
foam
;
driving
the
wintry
leaves
,
which
still
strewed
the
earth
thickly
,
hither
and
thither
in
legions
;
breaking
boughs
that
had
weathered
the
winter
hurricanes
,
and
scattering
the
tender
blossoms
of
the
snowdrops
and
the
earliest
crocuses
in
all
the
little
moss‐grown
garden
ways
.
The
smell
of
wet
grass
,
of
the
wood‐born
violets
,
of
trees
whose
new
life
was
waking
in
their
veins
,
of
damp
earths
turned
freshly
upwards
by
the
plough
,
were
all
blown
together
by
the
riotous
breezes
.
Now
and
then
a
light
gleamed
through
the
gloom
where
a
little
peasant
boy
lighted
home
with
a
torch
some
old
priest
on
his
mule
,
or
a
boat
went
down
the
waters
with
a
lamp
hung
at
its
prow
.
For
it
grew
dark
early
,
and
people
used
to
the
river
read
a
threat
of
flood
on
its
face
.
A
dim
glow
from
the
west
,
which
was
still
tinged
with
the
fire
of
the
sunset
,
fell
through
a
great
square
window
set
in
a
stone
building
,
and
striking
across
the
sicklier
rays
of
an
oil
lamp
reached
the
opposing
wall
within
.
It
was
a
wall
of
grey
stone
,
dead
and
lustreless
like
the
wall
of
a
prison‐house
,
over
whose
surface
a
spider
as
colourless
as
itself
dragged
slowly
its
crooked
hairy
limbs
loaded
with
the
moisture
of
the
place
,
which
was
an
old
tower
,
of
which
the
country
folk
told
strange
tales
,
where
it
stood
among
the
rushes
on
the
left
bank
of
the
stream
.
A
man
watched
the
spider
as
it
went
.
It
crept
on
its
heavy
way
across
the
faint
crimson
reflection
from
the
glow
of
the
sunken
sun
.
It
was
fat
,
well‐nourished
,
lazy
,
content
;
its
home
of
dusky
silver
hung
on
high
,
where
its
pleasure
lay
in
weaving
,
clinging
,
hoarding
,
breeding
.
It
lived
in
the
dark
;
it
had
neither
pity
nor
regret
;
it
troubled
itself
neither
for
the
death
it
dealt
to
nourish
itself
,
nor
for
the
light
without
,
into
which
it
never
wandered
;
it
spun
and
throve
and
multiplied
.
It
was
an
emblem
of
the
man
who
is
wise
in
his
generation
;
of
the
man
whom
Cato
the
elder
deemed
divine
;
of
the
Majority
and
the
Mediocrity
who
rule
over
the
earth
and
enjoy
its
fruits
.
This
man
knew
that
was
wise
;
that
those
who
were
like
to
it
were
wise
also
;
wise
with
the
only
wisdom
which
is
honoured
of
other
men
.
He
had
been
unwise
—
always
;
and
therefore
he
stood
watching
the
sun
die
,
with
hunger
in
his
soul
,
with
famine
in
his
body
.
For
many
months
he
had
been
half
famished
,
as
were
the
wolves
in
his
own
northern
mountains
in
the
winter
solstice
.
For
seven
days
he
had
only
been
able
to
crush
a
crust
of
hard
black
bread
between
his
teeth
.
For
twenty
hours
he
had
not
done
even
so
much
as
this
.
The
trencher
on
his
tressel
was
empty
;
and
he
had
not
wherewithal
to
refill
it
.
He
might
have
found
some
to
fill
it
for
him
no
doubt
.
He
lived
amidst
the
poor
,
and
the
poor
to
the
poor
are
good
,
though
they
are
bad
and
bitter
to
the
rich
.
But
he
did
not
open
either
his
lips
or
his
hands
.
He
consumed
his
heart
in
silence
;
and
his
vitals
preyed
in
anguish
on
themselves
without
his
yielding
to
their
torments
.
He
was
a
madman
;
and
Cato
,
who
measured
the
godliness
of
man
by
what
they
gained
,
would
have
held
him
,
accursed
;
—
the
madness
that
starves
and
is
silent
for
an
idea
is
an
insanity
,
scouted
by
the
world
and
the
gods
.
For
it
is
an
insanity
unfruitful
;
except
to
the
future
.
And
for
the
future
who
cares
,
—
save
these
madmen
themselves
?
He
watched
the
spider
as
it
went
.
It
could
not
speak
to
him
as
its
fellow
once
spoke
in
the
old
Scottish
story
.
To
hear
as
that
captive
heard
,
the
hearer
must
have
hope
,
and
a
kingdom
,
—
if
only
in
dreams
.
This
man
had
no
hope
;
he
had
a
kingdom
indeed
,
but
it
was
not
of
earth
;
and
,
in
an
hour
of
sheer
cruel
bodily
pain
,
earth
alone
has
dominion
over
power
and
worth
.
The
spider
crawled
across
the
grey
wall
;
across
the
glow
from
the
vanished
sun
;
across
a
coil
of
a
dead
passion‐vine
,
that
strayed
loosed
through
the
floor
;
across
the
classic
shapes
of
a
great
cartoon
drawn
in
chalks
upon
the
dull
rugged
surface
of
stone
.
Nothing
arrested
it
;
nothing
retarded
it
,
as
nothing
hastened
it
.
It
moved
slowly
on
;
fat
,
lustreless
,
indolent
,
hueless
;
reached
at
length
its
den
,
and
there
squatted
aloft
,
loving
the
darkness
;
its
young
swarming
around
,
its
prey
held
in
its
forceps
,
its
nest
cast
about
.
Through
the
open
casement
there
came
on
the
rising
wind
of
the
storm
,
in
the
light
of
the
last
lingering
sunbeam
,
a
beautiful
night‐moth
,
begotten
by
some
cruel
hot‐house
heat
in
the
bosom
of
some
frail
exiled
tropical
flower
.
It
swam
in
on
trembling
pinions
,
and
alighted
on
the
golden
head
of
a
gathered
crocus
that
lay
dying
on
the
stones
—
a
moth
that
should
have
been
born
to
no
world
save
that
of
the
summer
world
of
a
Midsummer
Night’s
Dream
.
A
shape
of
Ariel
and
Oberon
;
slender
,
silver
,
purple
,
roseate
,
lustrous‐eyed
,
and
gossamer‐winged
.
A
creature
of
woodland
waters
and
blossoming
forests
;
of
the
yellow
chalices
of
kingcups
and
the
white
breasts
of
river
lilies
,
of
moonbeams
that
strayed
through
a
summer
world
of
shadows
,
and
dewdrops
that
glistened
in
the
deep
folded
hearts
of
roses
.
A
creature
to
brush
the
dreaming
eyes
of
a
poet
,
to
nestle
on
the
bosom
of
a
young
girl
sleeping
:
to
float
earthwards
on
a
fallen
star
,
to
slumber
on
a
lotus
life
.
A
creature
that
amidst
the
still
soft
hush
of
woods
and
waters
still
tells
,
to
those
who
listen
,
of
the
world
when
the
world
was
young
.
The
moth
flew
on
,
and
poised
on
the
faded
crocus
leaves
which
spread
out
their
pale
gold
on
the
level
of
the
grey
floor
.
It
was
weary
,
and
its
delicate
wings
drooped
;
it
was
storm‐tossed
,
wind‐beaten
,
drenched
with
mist
and
frozen
with
the
cold
;
it
belonged
to
the
moon
,
to
the
dew
,
to
the
lilies
,
to
the
forget‐me‐nots
,
and
to
the
night
;
and
it
found
that
the
hard
grip
of
winter
had
seized
it
whilst
yet
it
had
thought
that
the
stars
and
the
summer
were
with
it
.
It
lived
before
its
time
,
—
and
it
was
like
the
human
soul
,
which
being
born
in
the
darkness
of
the
world
dares
to
dream
of
light
,
and
,
wandering
in
vain
search
of
a
sun
that
will
never
rise
,
falls
and
perishes
in
wretchedness
.
It
was
beautiful
exceedingly
;
with
the
brilliant
tropical
beauty
of
a
life
that
is
short‐lived
.
It
rested
a
moment
on
the
stem
of
the
pale
flower
,
then
with
its
radiant
eyes
fastened
on
the
point
of
light
which
the
lamp
thrust
upward
,
it
flew
on
high
;
and
,
spreading
out
its
transparent
wings
and
floating
to
the
flame
,
kissed
it
,
quivered
once
,
and
died
.
There
fell
among
the
dust
and
cinder
of
the
lamp
a
little
heap
of
shrunken
fire‐scorched
blackened
ashes
.
The
wind
whirled
them
upward
from
their
rest
,
and
drove
them
forth
into
the
night
to
mingle
with
the
storm‐scourged
grasses
,
the
pale
dead
violets
,
the
withered
snow‐flowers
,
with
all
things
frost‐touched
and
forgotten
.
The
spider
sat
aloft
,
sucking
the
juices
from
the
fettered
flies
,
teaching
its
spawn
to
prey
and
feed
;
content
in
squalor
and
in
plentitude
;
in
sensual
sloth
,
and
in
the
increase
of
its
body
and
its
hoard
.
He
watched
them
both
:
the
success
of
the
spider
,
the
death
of
the
moth
;
trite
as
a
fable
;
ever
repeated
as
the
tides
of
the
sea
;
the
two
symbols
of
humanity
;
of
the
life
which
fattens
on
greed
and
gain
,
and
the
life
which
perishes
of
divine
desire
.
Then
he
turned
and
looked
at
the
cartoons
upon
the
wall
;
shapes
grand
and
dim
,
the
children
of
his
genius
,
a
genius
denied
by
men
.
His
head
sank
on
his
chest
,
his
hand
tore
the
shirt
away
from
his
breast
,
which
the
pangs
of
a
bodily
hunger
that
he
scorned
,
devoured
,
indeed
,
but
which
throbbed
with
a
pain
more
bitter
than
that
of
even
this
lingering
and
ignoble
death
.
He
had
genius
in
him
,
and
he
had
to
die
like
a
wolf
on
the
Armorican
wolds
,
yonder
westward
,
when
the
snows
of
winter
hid
all
offal
from
its
fangs
.
It
was
horrible
.
He
had
to
die
for
want
of
the
crust
that
beggars
gnawed
in
the
kennels
of
the
city
;
he
had
to
die
of
the
lowest
and
commonest
need
of
all
—
the
sheer
animal
need
of
food
.
“
J’avais
quelque
chose
là
!
”
was
,
perhaps
,
the
most
terrible
of
all
those
death‐cries
of
despair
which
the
guillotine
of
Thermidor
wrung
from
the
lips
of
the
condemned
.
For
it
was
the
despair
of
the
bodily
life
for
the
life
of
the
mind
which
died
with
it
.
When
a
man
clings
to
life
for
life’s
sake
,
because
it
is
fair
and
sweet
,
and
good
to
the
sight
and
the
senses
,
there
may
be
weakness
in
his
shudder
at
its
threatening
loss
.
But
when
a
man
is
loth
to
lose
life
,
although
it
be
hard
and
joyless
and
barren
of
all
delights
,
because
this
life
gives
him
power
to
accomplish
things
greater
than
he
,
which
yet
without
him
must
perish
,
there
is
the
strength
in
him
,
as
there
is
the
agony
,
of
Prometheus
.
With
him
it
must
die
also
:
that
deep
dim
greatness
within
him
which
moves
him
,
despite
himself
;
that
nameless
unspeakable
force
,
which
compels
him
to
create
and
to
achieve
;
that
vision
by
which
he
beholds
worlds
beyond
him
not
seen
by
his
fellows
.
Weary
of
life
indeed
he
may
be
;
of
life
material
,
and
full
of
subtlety
;
of
passion
,
of
pleasure
,
of
pain
;
of
the
kisses
that
burn
,
of
the
laughs
that
ring
hollow
,
of
the
honey
that
so
soon
turns
to
gall
,
of
the
sickly
fatigues
and
the
tired
cloyed
hunger
that
are
the
portion
of
men
upon
earth
.
Weary
of
these
he
may
be
;
but
still
if
the
gods
have
breathed
on
him
and
made
him
mad
,
with
the
madness
that
men
have
called
genius
,
there
will
be
that
in
him
greater
than
himself
,
which
he
knows
,
—
and
cannot
know
without
some
fierce
wrench
and
pang
,
—
will
be
numbed
and
made
impotent
,
and
drift
away
,
lost
for
evermore
,
into
that
eternal
Night
which
is
all
that
men
behold
of
death
.
It
was
so
with
this
man
now
.
Life
was
barren
of
all
delight
for
him
,
full
of
privation
,
of
famine
,
of
obscurity
,
of
fruitless
travail
and
of
vain
desire
;
yet
because
he
believed
that
he
had
it
in
him
to
be
great
,
or
rather
because
,
with
a
purer
and
more
impersonal
knowledge
,
he
believed
that
it
was
within
his
power
to
do
that
which
,
when
done
,
the
world
would
not
willingly
let
die
,
it
was
loathsome
to
him
to
perish
thus
of
the
sheer
lack
of
food
,
as
any
toothless
snake
would
perish
in
its
swamp
.
He
stood
opposite
to
the
great
white
cartoons
on
which
his
soul
had
spent
itself
;
creations
which
seemed
but
vague
and
ghostly
in
the
shadows
of
the
chamber
,
but
in
which
he
saw
,
or
at
the
least
believed
he
saw
,
the
title‐deeds
of
his
own
heirship
to
the
world’s
kingdom
of
fame
.
For
himself
he
cared
nothing
;
but
for
them
—
he
smiled
bitterly
as
he
looked
:
“
They
will
light
some
bakehouse
fire
to
pay
those
that
may
throw
my
body
in
a
ditch
,
”
he
thought
.
And
yet
the
old
passion
had
so
much
dominion
still
that
he
instinctively
went
nearer
to
his
latest
and
best‐beloved
creations
,
and
took
the
white
chalks
up
and
worked
once
more
by
the
dull
sullen
rays
of
the
lamp
behind
him
.
They
would
be
torn
down
on
the
morrow
and
thrust
for
fuel
into
some
housewife’s
kitchen‐stove
.
What
matter
?
He
loved
them
;
they
were
his
sole
garniture
and
treasure
;
in
them
his
soul
had
gathered
all
its
dreams
and
all
its
pure
delights
:
so
long
as
his
sight
lasted
he
sought
to
feed
it
on
them
;
so
long
as
his
hand
had
power
he
strove
to
touch
,
to
caress
,
to
enrich
them
.
Even
in
such
an
hour
as
this
,
the
old
sweet
trance
of
Art
was
upon
him
.
He
was
devoured
by
the
deadly
fangs
of
long
fast
;
streaks
of
living
fire
seemed
to
scorch
his
entrails
;
his
throat
and
lungs
were
parched
and
choked
;
and
ever
and
again
his
left
hand
clenched
on
the
bones
of
his
naked
chest
as
though
he
could
wrench
away
the
throes
that
gnawed
it
.
He
knew
that
worse
than
this
would
follow
;
he
knew
that
tenfold
more
torment
would
await
him
;
that
limbs
as
strong
,
and
muscles
as
hard
,
and
manhood
as
vigorous
as
his
,
would
only
yield
to
such
death
as
this
slowly
,
doggedly
,
inch
by
inch
,
day
by
day
.
He
knew
;
and
he
knew
that
he
could
not
trust
himself
to
go
through
that
uttermost
torture
without
once
lifting
his
voice
to
summon
the
shame
of
release
from
it
.
Shame
—
since
release
would
needs
be
charity
.
He
knew
full
well
;
he
had
seen
all
forms
of
death
;
he
had
studied
its
throes
,
and
portrayed
its
horrors
.
He
knew
that
before
dawn
—
it
might
be
before
midnight
—
this
agony
would
grow
so
great
that
it
would
conquer
him
;
and
that
to
save
himself
from
the
cowardice
of
appeal
,
the
shame
besought
alms
,
he
would
have
to
use
his
last
powers
to
drive
home
a
knife
hard
and
sure
through
his
breast‐bone
.
Yet
he
stood
there
,
almost
forgetting
this
,
scarcely
conscious
of
any
other
thing
than
of
the
passion
that
ruled
him
.
Some
soft
curve
in
a
girl’s
bare
bosom
,
some
round
smooth
arm
of
a
sleeping
woman
,
some
fringe
of
leaves
against
a
moonlit
sky
,
some
broad‐winged
bird
sailing
through
shadows
of
the
air
,
some
full‐orbed
lion
rising
to
leap
on
the
nude
soft
indolently‐folded
limbs
of
a
dreaming
virgin
,
palm‐shadowed
in
the
East
;
—
all
these
he
gazed
on
and
touched
,
and
looked
again
,
and
changed
by
some
more
inward
curve
or
deepened
line
of
his
chalk
stylus
.
All
these
usurped
him
;
appealed
to
him
;
were
well
beloved
and
infinitely
sad
;
seemed
ever
in
their
whiteness
and
their
loneliness
to
cry
to
him
,
—
“
Whither
dost
thou
go
?
Wilt
thou
leave
us
alone
?
”
And
as
he
stood
,
and
thus
caressed
them
with
his
eyes
and
touch
,
and
wrestled
with
the
inward
torment
which
grew
greater
and
greater
as
the
night
approached
,
the
sudden
sickly
feebleness
of
long
hunger
came
upon
him
;
the
grave‐like
coldness
of
his
fireless
chamber
slackened
and
numbed
the
flowing
of
his
veins
;
his
brain
grew
dull
and
all
its
memory
ceased
,
confused
and
blotted
.
He
staggered
once
,
wondering
dimly
and
idly
as
men
wonder
in
delirium
,
if
this
indeed
were
death
:
then
he
fell
backwards
senseless
on
his
hearth
.
The
last
glow
of
day
died
off
the
wall
.
The
wind
rose
louder
,
driving
in
through
the
open
casement
a
herd
of
withered
leaves
.
An
owl
flew
by
,
uttering
weary
cries
against
the
storm
.
On
high
the
spider
sat
,
sucking
the
vitals
of
its
prey
,
safe
in
its
filth
and
darkness
;
looking
down
ever
on
the
lifeless
body
on
the
hearth
,
and
saying
in
its
heart
,
—
“
Thou
Fool
!
”
CHAPTER
II
.
AS
the
night
fell
,
Folle‐Farine
,
alone
,
steered
herself
down
the
water
through
the
heart
of
the
town
,
where
the
buildings
were
oldest
,
and
where
on
either
side
there
loomed
through
the
dusk
,
carved
on
the
black
timbers
,
strange
masks
of
satyr
and
of
faun
,
of
dragon
and
of
griffin
,
of
fiend
and
of
martyr
.
She
sat
in
the
clumsy
empty
market‐boat
,
guiding
the
tiller
rope
with
her
foot
.
The
sea
flowing
in
stormily
upon
the
coast
sent
the
tide
of
the
river
inland
with
a
swift
impetuous
current
,
to
which
its
sluggish
depths
were
seldom
stirred
.
The
oars
rested
unused
in
the
bottom
of
the
boat
;
she
glided
down
the
stream
without
exertion
of
her
own
,
quietly
,
easily
,
dreamily
.
She
had
come
from
a
long
day’s
work
,
lading
and
unlading
timber
and
grain
for
her
taskmaster
,
and
his
fellow
farmers
,
at
the
river
wharf
at
the
back
of
the
town
,
where
the
little
sea‐trawlers
and
traders
,
with
their
fresh
salt
smell
and
their
brown
sails
crisp
from
fierce
sea
winds
,
gathered
for
traffic
with
the
corn
barges
and
the
egg‐boats
of
the
land
.
Her
day’s
labour
was
done
,
and
she
was
repaid
for
it
by
the
free
effortless
backward
passage
home
through
the
shadows
of
the
water‐streets
;
where
in
the
overhanging
buildings
,
ever
and
anon
,
some
lantern
swinging
on
a
cord
from
side
to
side
,
or
some
open
casement
arched
above
a
gallery
,
showed
the
dark
sad
wistful
face
of
some
old
creature
kneeling
in
prayer
before
a
crucifix
,
or
the
gold
ear‐rings
of
some
laughing
girl
leaning
down
with
the
first
frail
violets
of
the
year
fragrant
in
her
bodice
.
The
cold
night
had
brought
the
glow
of
wood‐fires
in
many
of
the
dwellings
of
that
poor
and
picturesque
quarter
;
and
showed
many
a
homely
interior
through
the
panes
of
the
oriel
and
lancet
windows
,
over
which
brooded
sculptured
figures
seraph‐winged
,
or
carven
forms
helmeted
and
leaning
on
their
swords
.
In
one
of
them
there
was
a
group
of
young
men
and
maidens
gathered
round
the
wood
nut‐burning
,
the
lovers
seeking
each
other’s
kiss
as
the
kernels
broke
the
shells
;
in
another
,
some
rosy
curly
children
played
at
soldiers
with
the
cuirass
and
sabre
which
their
grandsire
had
won
in
the
army
of
the
empire
;
in
another
,
before
a
quaint
oval
old‐fashioned
glass
,
a
young
girl
all
alone
made
trial
of
her
wedding
wreath
upon
her
fair
forehead
,
and
smiled
back
on
her
own
image
with
a
little
joyous
laugh
that
ended
in
a
sob
;
in
another
,
a
young
bearded
workman
carved
ivory
beside
his
hearth
,
whilst
his
old
mother
sat
knitting
in
a
high
oak
chair
;
in
another
,
a
sister
of
charity
,
with
a
fair
Madonna’s
face
,
bent
above
a
little
pot
of
home‐bred
snowdrops
,
with
her
tears
dropping
on
the
white
heads
of
the
flowers
,
whilst
the
sick
man
,
of
whom
she
had
charge
,
slept
and
left
her
a
brief
space
for
her
own
memories
,
her
own
pangs
,
her
own
sickness
,
which
was
only
of
the
heart
—
only
—
and
therefore
hopeless
.
All
these
Folle‐Farine
saw
,
going
onward
in
the
boat
on
the
gloom
of
the
water
below
.
She
did
not
envy
them
;
she
rather
,
with
her
hatred
of
them
,
scorned
them
.
She
had
been
freeborn
,
though
now
she
was
a
slave
;
the
pleasures
of
the
home
and
hearth
she
envied
no
more
that
she
envied
the
imprisoned
bird
its
seed
and
water
,
its
mate
and
song
,
within
the
close
cage
bars
.
Yet
they
had
a
sort
of
fascination
for
her
