Meanwhile my mother went out to the appointed place where, it seems, Raoul had daily placed a loaf.  We, who were not in the secret, had much wondered where our bread came from, and how it lasted out.  This time she returned with a large sausage as well; so we ate our meal with gladness and thankfulness of heart, La Croissette insisting on passing round his bottle, which, somehow, he always kept well filled.  And had this man had a mind to betray us, how easily he might have done so!  He overheard our plans, might have drugged our wine, and stretched us all powerless; might have told his comrades to make sport of us, and kept out of sight himself; or might openly have led the dragoons to our hiding-place with torches and weapons.  Our blessed Lord had more reason, humanly speaking, to trust Judas, than we to trust La Croissette; but you see this man was honest; you could not have tempted him to sell us for thirty pieces of silver.

When he went forth, though, after supper, my mind misgave me for a while, thinking, “What if he be gone to betray us?” I wronged his worthy heart.  So many people are worse than we think them, that it is a comfort when some prove better than we think them.  Worthy La Croissette!  I have thy tall, meagre form and lantern jaws now before me.  Many a showy professor might be bettered by having as true a heart.

When he was gone, my father said, “Let us join once more in family worship, and then get a little sleep before our night-journey begins.”

I think he and M. Bourdinave and the children actually did sleep, but not my mother or the girls.  I certainly did not.  My mother dressed and bandaged my wounded feet for the last time.  They were healing, but too tender for walking or standing without injury to the newly-formed skin.  Then she sat beside me, with looks of love, and was presently joined by Madeleine.  We knew so well what was passing in each other’s minds, that we did not need to say much.  Then my father awoke, with all his faculties about him, looked at his watch, and said it was time to start.  M. Bourdinave went out, and after what seemed to our impatience rather a long time, returned, and said Raoul reported unusual disturbance in the city, but that now all was ready.  We took leave of one another, agreed on places of rendezvous (if we were ever enabled to reach them), and had a valedictory prayer.  Still they did not like to go and leave me without La Croissette.  At length he appeared, and, addressing my father, said: 

“You had better avoid the precincts of your famous temple, La Calade:  it has been completely demolished, and crowds are yet hanging about their beloved place of worship, regardless of danger, but the military will presently disperse them.”

“Ah, what desecration!” exclaimed my mother.

“Keep your regrets for the sufferings of living people, my good lady,” said La Croissette.  “Stones have no feeling, and are not prone to revenge insult.  ’Tis said, walls have ears.  The walls of La Calade have, at all events, a tongue; for on the summit of the ruins lies a stone with these words on it, ’Lo, this is the house of God; this is the gate of heaven!’”