terrible than the sound; for though we spoke thus, we did not believe
the place was empty. Those whom we approached seemed to be wrapping
themselves in silence, invisible, waiting to speak with some awful
purpose when their time came.

There we stood for some minutes, like two children, holding each other's
hands, leaning against each other at the corner of the square--as
helpless as children, waiting for what should come next. I say it
frankly, my brain and my heart were one throb. They plunged and beat so
wildly that I could scarcely have heard any other sound. In this respect
I think he was more calm. There was on his face that look of intense
listening which strains the very soul. But neither he nor I heard
anything, not so much as a whisper. At last, 'Let us go on,' I said. We
stumbled as we went, with agitation and fear. We were afraid to turn our
backs to those empty houses, which seemed to gaze at us with all their
empty windows pale and glaring. Mechanically, scarce knowing what I was
doing, I made towards my own house.

There was no one there. The rooms were all open and empty. I went from
one to another, with a sense of expectation which made my heart faint;
but no one was there, nor anything changed. Yet I do wrong to say that
nothing was changed. In my library, where I keep my books, where my
father and grandfather conducted their affairs, like me, one little
difference struck me suddenly, as if some one had dealt me a blow. The
old bureau which my grandfather had used, at which I remember standing
by his knee, had been drawn from the corner where I had placed it out
of the way (to make room for the furniture I preferred), and replaced,
as in old times, in the middle of the room. It was nothing; yet how much
was in this! though only myself could have perceived it. Some of the old
drawers were open, full of old papers. I glanced over there in my