rumble which, little by little, rose above all the other sounds of the
night. She heard it, and at last lent ear to nothing else. It was the
train, for whose familiar roar she waited every evening. As soon as it
left Monval station on its way to Janville, it gave token of its coming,
but so faintly that only a practised ear could distinguish its rumble
amid the other sounds rising from the country side. For her part, she
heard it immediately, and thereupon followed it in fancy through every
phase of its journey. And never had she been better able to do so than on
that splendid night, amid the profound quietude of the earth's slumber.
It had left Monval, it was turning beside the brickworks, it was skirting
St. George's fields. In another two minutes it would be at Janville. Then
all at once its white light shone out beyond the poplar trees of Le
Mesnil Rouge, and the panting of the engine grew louder, like that of
some giant racer drawing near. On that side the plain spread far away
into a dark, unknown region, beneath the star-spangled sky, which on the
very horizon showed a ruddy reflection like that of some brasier, the
reflection of nocturnal Paris, blazing and smoking in the darkness like a
volcano.

Marianne sprang to her feet. The train stopped at Janville, and then its
rumble rose again, grew fainter, and died away in the direction of
Vieux-Bourg. But she no longer paid attention to it. She now had eyes and
ears only for the road which wound like a pale ribbon between the dark
patches of corn. Her husband did not take ten minutes to cover the
thousand yards and more which separated the station from the little
bridge. And, as a rule, she perceived and recognized him far off; but on
that particular night, such was the deep silence that she could
distinguish his footfall on the echoing road long before his dark, slim
figure showed against the pale ground. And he found her there, erect
under the stars, smiling and healthy, a picture of all that is good. The