remember we were shivering with weariness, on that day, gazing sadly at
one another when alone.

Our children brought back our youth.

Lunch was eaten in silence. We had been compelled to light the lamp. The
reddish glimmer that hung round the room was sad enough to drive one
crazy.

"Bah!" said Jacques, "this tepid rainy weather is better than intense cold
that would freeze our vines and olives."

And he tried to joke. But he was as anxious as we were, without knowing
why. Babet had had bad dreams. We listened to the account of her
nightmare, laughing with our lips but sad at heart.

"This weather quite upsets one," I said to cheer us all up.

"Yes, yes, it's the weather," Jacques hastened to add. "I'll put some vine
branches on the fire."

There was a bright flame which cast large sheets of light upon the walls.
The branches burnt with a cracking sound, leaving rosy ashes. We had
seated ourselves in front of the chimney; the air, outside, was tepid; but
great drops of icy cold damp fell from the ceilings inside the farmhouse.
Babet had taken little Marie on her knees; she was talking to her in an
undertone, amused at her childish chatter.

"Are you coming, father?" Jacques inquired of me. "We are going to look at
the cellars and lofts."

I went out with him. The harvests had been getting bad for some years
past. We were suffering great losses: our vines and trees were caught by
frost, whilst hail had chopped up our wheat and oats. And I sometimes said
that I was growing old, and that fortune, who is a woman, does not care
for old men. Jacques laughed, answering that he was young, and was going
to court fortune.

I had reached the winter, the cold season. I felt distinctly that all was
withering around me. At each pleasure that departed, I thought of uncle
Lazare, who had died so calmly; and with fond remembrances of him, asked
for strength.

Daylight had completely disappeared at three o'clock. We went down into
the common room. Babet was sewing in the chimney corner, with her head
bent over her work; and little Marie was seated on the ground, in front of
the fire, gravely dressing a doll. Jacques and I had placed ourselves at a
mahogany writing-table, which had come to us from uncle Lazare, and were
engaged in checking our accounts.

The window was as if blocked up; the fog, sticking to the panes of glass,
formed a perfect wall of gloom. Behind this wall stretched emptiness, the
unknown. A great noise,