suddenly burst forth into replies--_'Oui, ma chérie! Oui, mon ange_!'
they cried. And while we looked they rose up; they came back, calling
the children around them. My Agnès took that place which I had bidden
her take. She had not hearkened to me, to leave me--but she hearkened
now; and though I had bidden her to do this, yet to see her do it
bewildered me, made my heart stand still. '_Mon ami_,' she said, 'I must
leave thee; it is commanded: they will not have the children suffer.'
What could we do? We stood pale and looked on, while all the little
ones, all the feeble, were gathered in a little army. My mother stood
like me--to her nothing had been revealed. She was very pale, and there
was a quiver of pain in her lips. She was the one who had been ready to
do my bidding: but there was a rebellion in her heart now. When the
procession was formed (for it was my care to see that everything was
done in order), she followed, but among the last. Thus they went away,
many of them weeping, looking back, waving their hands to us. My Agnès
covered her face, she could not look at me; but she obeyed. They went
some to this side, some to that, leaving us gazing. For a long time we
did nothing but watch them, going along the roads. What had their angels
said to them? Nay, but God knows. I heard the sound; it was like the
sound of the silver trumpets that travellers talk of; it was like music
from heaven. I turned to M. le Curé, who was standing by. 'What is it?'
I cried, 'you are their director--you are an ecclesiastic--you know what
belongs to the unseen. What is this that has been said to them?' I have
always thought well of M. le Curé. There were tears running down his
cheeks.

'I know not,' he said. 'I am a miserable like the rest. What they know
is between God and them. Me! I have been of the world, like the rest.'

This is how we were left alone--the men of the city--to take what means