before me as she did the last time I met her; if, in the middle of the
dark, I saw the shining radiance of her face, the swaying of her
figure, traced in silken lines, and her little sister's hand in
hers,--I should tremble.

But that does not happen. The bluish, cold background only shows me
the two second-floor windows pleasantly warmed by lights, of which one
is, perhaps, she herself. But they take no sort of shape, and remain
in another world.

At last my eyes leave that constellation of windows among the trees,
that vertical and silent firmament. Then I make for my home, in this
evening which comes at the end of all the days I have lived.

* * * * * *

Little Antoinette,--how comes it that they leave her all alone like
this?--is standing in my path and holding a hand out towards me. It is
her way that she is begging for. I guide her, ask questions and
listen, leaning over her and making little steps. But she is too
little, and too lispful, and cannot explain. Carefully I lead the
child,--who sees so feebly that already she is blind in the evening, as
far as the low door of the dilapidated dwelling where she nests.

In my street, in front of his lantern-shaped house, with its
iron-grilled dormer, old Eudo is standing, darkly hooded, and pointed,
like the house.

I am a little afraid of him. Assuredly, he has not got a clean
conscience. But, however guilty, he is compassionable. I stop and