d, leaps among the ancient trees. The
little priest murmurs the terrible words: Dies irae, dies illa....

And this present day is surely the day of wrath... I too utter my
prayer: "In the name of the unhappy world, Bride, I remit all thy sins,
I absolve thee from all thy faults! Let this day, at least, be a day of
rest."

The little priest stands bare-headed in the blast. An orderly who is an
ecclesiastic holds the end of an apron over his head. A man raises the
lantern to the level of his eye. And the rain-drops gleam and sparkle
furtively.

Bride is dead....

Now we meet again in the little room where friendship reigns.

Pierre and Jacques, gallant fellows, I shall not forget your beautiful,
painful smile at the moment which brings discouragement to the
experienced man. I shall not forget.

The beef and rice, which one needs to be very hungry to swallow,
is distributed. And a gentle cheerfulness blossoms in the circle of
lamplight, a cheerfulness which tries to catch something of the gaiety
of the past. Man has such a deep-seated need of joy that he improvises
it everywhere, even in the heart of misery.

And suddenly, through the steam of the soup, I see Bride's look
distinctly.

It was no ordinary look. The extremity of suffering, the approach
of death, perhaps, and also the hidden riches of his soul, gave it
extraordinary light, sweetness, and gentleness. When one came to
his bedside, and bent over him, the look was there, a well-spring of
refreshment.

But Bride is dead: we saw his eyes transformed into dull, meaningless
membranes.

Where is that well-spring? Can it be quenched?

Bride is dead. Involuntarily, I repeat aloud: "Bride is dead."

Have I roused a responsive echo in these sympathetic souls? A religious
silence falls upon them. The oldest of all problems comes and takes its
place at the table like a familiar guest. It breathes mysteriously into
every ear: "Where is Bride? Where is Bride's look?"

VI

A lantern advances, swinging among the pines. Who is coming to meet us?

Philippe recognises the figure of Monsieur Julien. Here is the man,
indeed, with his porter's livery, and his base air as of an insolent
slave. He waves a stable-lantern which throws grotesque shadows upwards
on his face; and he is obviously furious at having been forced to render
a service.

He brandishes the lantern angrily, and thrusts out his chin to show us
the advancing figures: two men are carrying a stre