had chattered with fear at night time at the sudden thought of
annihilation. He deemed her heroic at remaining so undisturbed by any
ideas of eternity and the infinite. And she, as she felt he was
quivering, went on: "What can you suppose there should be after death?
We've deserved a right to sleep, and nothing to my thinking can be more
desirable and consoling."

"But those two did not live," murmured Pierre, "so why not allow oneself
the joy of believing that they now live elsewhere, recompensed for all
their torments?"

Victorine, however, again shook her head; "No, no," she replied. "Ah! I
was quite right in saying that my poor Benedetta did wrong in torturing
herself with all those superstitious ideas of hers when she was really so
fond of her lover. Yes, happiness is rarely found, and how one regrets
having missed it when it's too late to turn back! That's the whole story
of those poor little ones. It's too late for them, they are dead." Then
in her turn she broke down and began to sob. "Poor little ones! poor
little ones! Look how white they are, and think what they will be when
only the bones of their heads lie side by side on the cushion, and only
the bones of their arms still clasp one another. Ah! may they sleep, may
they sleep; at least they know nothing and feel nothing now."

A long interval of silence followed. Pierre, amidst the quiver of his own
doubts, the anxious desire which in common with most men he felt for a
new life beyond the grave, gazed at this woman who did not find priests
to her fancy, and who retained all her Beauceronne frankness of speech,
with the tranquil, contented air of one who has ever done her duty in her
humble station as a servant, lost though she had been for five and twenty
years in a land of wolves, whose language she had not even been able to