but a grey veil of clouds, growing darker and darker as the moments went on; such I have heard are the days and the nights in England, where the seafogs so often blot out the sky.  But we are unacquainted with anything of the kind in our plaisant pays de France.  There was nothing else talked of in Semur all that night, as may well be imagined.  My own mind was extremely uneasy.  Do what I would, I could not deliver myself from a sense of something dreadful in the air which was neither malaria nor animalculae, I took a promenade through the streets that evening, accompanied by M. Barbou, my adjoint, to make sure that all was safe; and the darkness was such that we almost lost our way, though we were both born in the town and had known every turning from our boyhood.  It cannot be denied that Semur is very badly lighted.  We retain still the lanterns slung by cords across the streets which once were general in France, but which, in most places, have been superseded by the modern institution of gas.  Gladly would I have distinguished my term of office by bringing gas to Semur.  But the expense would have been great, and there were a hundred objections.  In summer generally, the lanterns were of little consequence because of the brightness of the sky; but to see them now, twinkling dimly here and there, making us conscious how dark it was, was strange indeed.  It was in the interests of order that we took our round, with a fear, in my mind at least, of I knew not what.  M. l’Adjoint said nothing, but no doubt he thought as I did.

While we were thus patrolling the city with a special eye to the prevention of all seditious assemblages, such as are too apt to take advantage of any circumstances that may disturb the ordinary life of a city, or throw discredit on its magistrates, we were accosted by Paul Lecamus, a man whom I have always considered as something of a visionary, though his conduct is irreproachable, and his life honourable and industrious.  He entertains religious convictions of a curious kind; but, as the man is quite free from revolutionary sentiments, I have never considered it to be my duty to interfere with him, or to investigate his creed.  Indeed, he has been treated generally in Semur as a dreamer of dreams—­one who holds a great many impracticable and foolish opinions—­though the respect which I always exact for those whose lives are respectable and worthy has been a protection to hire.  He was, I think, aware that he owed something to my good offices, and it was to me accordingly that he addressed himself.

‘Good evening, M. le Maire,’ he said; ’you are groping about, like myself, in this strange night.’

‘Good evening M. Paul,’ I replied.  ’It is, indeed, a strange night.  It indicates, I fear, that a storm is coming.’

M. Paul shook his head.  There is a solemnity about even his ordinary appearance.  He has a long face, pale, and adorned with a heavy, drooping moustache, which adds much to the solemn impression made by his countenance.  He looked at me with great gravity as he stood in the shadow of the lamp, and slowly shook his head.