mething would spring up within her--she wholly failed to
understand what it was. She was tempest-tossed by a multitude of vague
imaginings--nightmares that she could not even have recalled to
memory. However, it was past now; she was well again, and those
worries would nevermore return.

CHAPTER XV.

The night was falling. From the grey heaven, where the first of the
stars were gleaming, a fine ashy dust seemed to be raining down on the
great city, raining down without cessation and slowly burying it. The
hollows were already hidden deep in gloom, and a line of cloud, like a
stream of ink, rose upon the horizon, engulfing the last streaks of
daylight, the wavering gleams which were retreating towards the west.
Below Passy but a few stretches of roofs remained visible; and as the
wave rolled on, darkness soon covered all.

"What a warm evening!" ejaculated Helene, as she sat at the window,
overcome by the heated breeze which was wafted upwards from Paris.

"A grateful night for the poor," exclaimed the Abbe, who stood behind
her. "The autumn will be mild."

That Tuesday Jeanne had fallen into a doze at dessert, and her mother,
perceiving that she was rather tired, had put her to bed. She was
already fast asleep in her cot, while Monsieur Rambaud sat at the
table gravely mending a toy--a mechanical doll, a present from
himself, which both spoke and walked, and which Jeanne had broken. He
excelled in such work as this. Helene on her side feeling the want of
fresh air--for the lingering heats of September were oppressive--had
thrown the window wide open, and gazed with relief on the vast gloomy
ocean of darkness that rolled before her. She had pushed an easy-chair
to the window in order to be alone, but was suddenly surprised to hear
the Abbe speaking to her. "Is the little one warmly covered?" he
gently asked. "On these heights the air is always keen."

She made no reply, however; her heart was craving for silence. She was
tasting the delights of the twilight hour, the vanishing of all
surrounding objects, the hushing of every sound. Gleams, like those of
night-lights, tipped the steeples and towers; that on Saint-Augustin
died out first, the Pantheon for a moment retained a bluish light, and
then the glittering dome of the Invalides faded away, similar to a
moon setting in a rising sea of clouds. The night was like the ocean,
its extent seemingly increased by the gloom, a dark abyss w