he was bringing up her two
daughters, Blanche and Marie, in principles of narrow piety, the elder
one already being as grave as herself, whilst the younger, albeit very
devout, was still fond of play, with an intensity of life within her
which found vent in gay peals of sonorous laughter. From their early
childhood Pierre and Marie played together, the hedge was ever being
crossed, the two families constantly mingled. And on that clear sunshiny
morning, when he pictured her parting the leafy branches she was already
ten years old. He, who was sixteen, was to enter the seminary on the
following Tuesday. Never had she seemed to him so pretty. Her hair, of a
pure golden hue, was so long that when it was let down it sufficed to
clothe her. Well did he remember her face as it had been, with round
cheeks, blue eyes, red mouth, and skin of dazzling, snowy whiteness. She
was indeed as gay and brilliant as the sun itself, a transplendency. Yet
there were tears at the corners of her eyes, for she was aware of his
coming departure. They sat down together at the far end of the garden, in
the shadow cast by the hedge. Their hands mingled, and their hearts were
very heavy. They had, however, never exchanged any vows amid their
pastimes, for their innocence was absolute. But now, on the eve of
separation, their mutual tenderness rose to their lips, and they spoke
without knowing, swore that they would ever think of one another, and
find one another again, some day, even as one meets in heaven to be very,
very happy. Then, without understanding how it happened, they clasped
each other tightly, to the point of suffocation, and kissed each other's
face, weeping, the while, hot tears. And it was that delightful memory
which Pierre had ever carried with him, which he felt alive within him
still, after so many years, and after so many painful renunciations.

Just then a more violent shock roused him from his reverie. He turned his
eyes upon the carriage and vaguely espied the suffering beings it
contained--Madame Maze motionless, overwhelmed with grief; little Rose
gently moaning in her mother's lap; La Grivotte, whom a hoarse cough was
choking. For a moment Sister Hyacinthe's gay face shone out amidst the
whiteness of her coif and wimple, dominating all the others. The painful
journey was continuing, with a ray of divine hope still and ever shining
yonder. Then everything slowly vanished from Pierre's eyes as a fresh
wave of memory brought