As we look at the cross, the mound and the flowers, we both think of this mystery: a little baby girl who was of his blood, his issue, who had his eyes, and . . . probably, too, his nature, and who was given back so soon to the Breton earth. It is as if something of himself had already gone from him to mingle with the dust; it was like an earnest-money which he had already given to eternal nothingness. . . . In four years, this little cross which may be seen now from the distance, will exist no longer; Yvonne and her mound and her flowers will be swept away. Even her little bones will be gathered up and mixed with the others, the bones of those long dead, under the church, in the ossuary. For four years still the cross will remain, and those who pass may read this name of a little child. . . . It stands on the edge of the pond. It is reflected in the deep, stagnant water, by the side of the tall grey steeple. On the mound the blooming carnations make white tufts, already indistinct in the oncoming darkness. The pond is like a mirror, pale yellow, of the colour of the dying daylight, of the sunset sky; and, all round, is the line, already dark, of the woods. The flowers of the tombs give out their soft perfumes of the evening. A mild stillness surrounds us and seems to close in upon us. . . . In the distance we hear the hooting of the owls, and we cannot distinguish now little Yvonne's white carnations. . . . The summer night has come. Suddenly a loud noise startles us, amid this silence in which we were thinking of the dead. It is the Angelus sounding, very close, above us, in the steeple; and the air is filled with the deep vibrations of the bell. Yet we had seen no one enter the church which is shut and dark. "Who is ringing?" asks Yves anxiously. "Who can be ringing? I would not do it, ever. . . . I would not enter the church at this hour, not even for all the gold in the world!" . . . We leave the cemetery; there is too much noise and the Angelus sounds strange there; it awakens unexpected echoes, in the waters of the pond, in the enclosure of the dead, in the darkness. Not that we are afraid of the poor little tomb with the white carnations; but there are the others, these mounds of turf which are all about us, these graves of men and women unknown. . . . _Ten o'clock._ I am going to sleep for the first time under the roof of my brother Yves. _Later._ We have already said good night, but he returns and opens my door. "The flowers. They may not be good for you; it has just occurred to us. . . ." And he takes them all away, the mignonette, the sweetpeas, even the bunches of heather. CHAPTER C The "pendulum of time" has continued its swing. It even seems that it has moved more quickly than usual, for the week's leave which had been given me is almost over. Every day we spend in the woods. The weather is splendid. The heather, the foxgloves, the red silenes, all are in flower.