presence, with loving gestures and words that were really touching, the huge man threw himself on the ground at her feet.  She was very happy to have him there, so dearly near, but she was just a little shy.  She looked upon him as an all-powerful being, extraordinary, raising him, in her simplicity, to the greatness of an Olympian commanding the thunder and lightning.  She spoke to him, asking about his friends, his business, but not daring to put the question she had asked de Gery:  “Why haven’t my grandchildren come?” But he spoke of them himself.  “They are at school, mother.  Whenever the holidays begin they shall be sent with Bompain.  You remember Jean-Baptiste Bompain?  And you shall keep them for two long months.  They will come to you and make you tell them stories, and they will go to sleep with their heads on your lap—­there, like that.”

And he himself, putting his heavy, woolly head on her knee, remembered the happy evenings of his childhood when he would go to sleep so, if she would let him, and his brother had not taken up all the room.  He tasted for the first time since his return to France a few minutes of delicious peace away from his restless and artificial life, as he lay pressed to his old mother’s heart, in the deep silence of night and of the country which one feels hovering over him in limitless space; the only sounds the beating of that old faithful heart and the swing of the pendulum of the ancient clock in the corner.  Suddenly came the same long sigh, as of a child fallen asleep sobbing.  Jansoulet lifted his head and looked at his mother, and softly asked:  “Is it—?” “Yes,” she said, “I make him sleep there.  He might need me in the night.”

“I would like to see him, to embrace him.”

“Come, then.”  She rose very gravely, took the lamp and went to the alcove, of which she softly drew the large curtain, making a sign to her son to draw near quietly.

He was sleeping.  And no doubt something lived in him while he slept that was not there when he waked, for instead of the flaccid immobility in which he was congealed all day, he was now shaken by sudden starts, and on the inexpressive and death-like face there were lines of pain and the contractions of suffering life.  Jansoulet, much affected, looked long at those wasted features, faded and sickly, where the beard grew with a surprising vigour.  Then he bent down, put his lips to the damp brow, and feeling him move, said very gravely and respectfully, as one speaks to the head of the family, “Good-night, my brother.”  Perhaps the captive soul had heard it from the depths of its dark and abject limbo.  For the lips moved and a long moan answered him, a far-away wail, a despairing cry, which filled with helpless tears the glance exchanged between Francoise and her son, and tore from them both the same cry in which their sorrow met, “Pecaire,” the local word which expressed all pity and all tenderness.