the street. The Cathedral doors were shut fast, a thing I have never
seen before since I remember. Get up early who will, Père Laserques the
sacristan is always up still earlier. He is a good old man, and I have
often heard him say God's house should be open first of all houses, in
case there might be any miserable ones about who had found no shelter in
the dwellings of men. But the darkness had cheated even Père Laserques.
To see those great doors closed which stood always open gave me a
shiver, I cannot well tell why. Had they been open, there was an
inclination in my mind to have gone in, though I cannot tell why; for I
am not in the habit of attending mass, save on Sunday to set an example.
There were no shops open, not a sound about. I went out upon the
ramparts to the Mont St. Lambert, where the band plays on Sundays. In
all the trees there was not so much as the twitter of a bird. I could
hear the river flowing swiftly below the wall, but I could not see it,
except as something dark, a ravine of gloom below, and beyond the walls
I did not venture to look. Why should I look? There was nothing,
nothing, as I knew. But fancy is so uncontrollable, and one's nerves so
little to be trusted, that it was a wise precaution to refrain. The
gloom itself was oppressive enough; the air seemed to creep with
apprehensions, and from time to time my heart fluttered with a sick
movement, as if it would escape from my control. But everything was
still, still as the dead who had been so often in recent days called out
of their graves by one or another. 'Enough to bring the dead out of
their graves.' What strange words to make use of! It was rather now as
if the world had become a grave in which we, though living, were held
fast.

Soon after this the dark world began to lighten faintly, and with the
rising of a little white mist, like a veil rolling upwards, I at last
saw the river and the fields beyond. To see anything at all lightened