find something else to do--not looking at each other, not saying a word.
Happily there was a great deal to do. And to see how some of the women,
and those the most anxious, would work, never resting, going on from one
thing to another, as if they were hungry for more and more! Some did it
with their mouths shut close, with their countenances fixed, not daring
to pause or meet another's eyes; but some, who were more patient, worked
with a soft word, and sometimes a smile, and sometimes a tear; but ever
working on. Some of them were an example to us all. In the morning, when
we got up, some from beds, some from the floor,--I insisted that all
should lie down, by turns at least, for we could not make room for every
one at the same hours,--the very first thought of all was to hasten to
the window, or, better, to the door. Who could tell what might have
happened while we slept? For the first moment no one would speak,--it
was the moment of hope--and then there would be a cry, a clasping of the
hands, which told--what we all knew. The one of the women who touched my
heart most was the wife of Riou of the _octroi_. She had been almost
rich for her condition in life, with a good house and a little servant
whom she trained admirably, as I have had occasion to know. Her husband
and her son were both among those whom we had left under the walls of
Semur; but she had three children with her at La Clairiere. Madame Riou
slept lightly, and so did I. Sometimes I heard her stir in the middle of
the night, though so softly that no one woke. We were in the same room,
for it may be supposed that to keep a room to one's self was not
possible. I did not stir, but lay and watched her as she went to the
window, her figure visible against the pale dawning of the light, with
an eager quick movement as of expectation--then turning back with slower
step and a sigh. She was always full of hope. As the days went on, there
came to be a kind of communication between us. We understood each other.
When one was occupied and the other free, that one of us who went out to
the door to look across the valley where Semur was would look at the
other as if to say, 'I go.' When it was Madame Riou who did this, I
shook my head, and she gave me a smile which awoke at every repetition
(though I knew it was vain) a faint expectation, a little hope. When she
came back, it was she who would shake her head, with her eyes full of
tears. 'Did I not tell thee?' I said, spe