h dignity the fallen government--in having
conquered the young republic itself, obliging it, in the person of the
sub-prefect, to come and salute her and thank her. At first there had
been question only of a discourse of the mayor; but it was known with
certainty, since the previous day, that the sub-prefect also would
speak. From so great a distance Clotilde could distinguish only a moving
crowd of black coats and light dresses, under the scorching sun. Then
there was a distant sound of music, the music of the amateur band of the
town, the sonorous strains of whose brass instruments were borne to her
at intervals on the breeze.

She left the window and went and opened the large oaken press to put
away in it the linen that had remained on the table. It was in this
press, formerly so full of the doctor's manuscripts, and now empty,
that she kept the baby's wardrobe. It yawned open, vast, seemingly
bottomless, and on the large bare shelves there was nothing but the baby
linen, the little waists, the little caps, the little socks, all the
fine clothing, the down of the bird still in the nest. Where so many
thoughts had been stored up, where a man's unremitting labor for thirty
years had accumulated in an overflowing heap of papers, there was now
only a baby's clothing, only the first garments which would protect it
for an hour, as it were, and which very soon it could no longer use.
The vastness of the antique press seemed brightened and all refreshed by
them.

When Clotilde had arranged the wrappers and the waists upon a shelf,
she perceived a large envelope containing the fragments of the documents
which she had placed there after she had rescued them from the fire. And
she remembered a request which Dr. Ramond had come only the day before
to make her--that she would see if there remained among this _debris_
any fragment of importance having a scientific interest. He was
inconsolable for the loss of the precious manuscripts which the master
had bequeathed to him. Immediately after the doctor's death he had made
an attempt to write from memory his last talk, that summary of vast
theories expounded by the dying man with so heroic a serenity; but he
could recall only parts of it. He would have needed complete notes,
observations made from day to day, the results obtained, and the laws
formulated. The loss was irreparable, the task was to be begun over
again, and he lamented having only indications; he said that it would be