I took refuge for a short time on the slopes of Beaumont in that little hut where I had been so sick with the plague in July; for the joke of it was that though the mob had burned my healthy house they left standing the worthless shed where Death and I had slept together, and now that he had no more terrors for me it was really a pleasure to go back to the poor little place with its trampled floor, still littered with the empty bottles of my somewhat funereal orgy. The place was uninhabitable in winter, as I knew well enough; the door was half off its hinges, the window panes cracked, and the roof leaked like a sieve; but tomorrow can take care of the things of itself, and today, at least, there was no prospect of rain, so I put off all thought of the future till the week after next. “It will be time enough to cross the bridge when I come to it,” thought I, “and perhaps the world will come to an end between now and then. I should be vexed enough if I heard the Angel Gabriel blowing his horn just after I had swallowed such a bitter pill; no, I like to drink my pleasure fresh out of the barrel, but disagreeable things can always stand till they get stale.” Well, there I waited, holding my troubles at arm’s length, but I did not give myself up exclusively to meditation. Behind my locked gates, I dug in my garden, covered up all the roots snugly against the winter, raked away the fallen leaves from the paths, and, generally, made the place tidy; then there was a little tree on which still hung a few red and yellow pears, and my delight was to lie on the sunny bank and let the sweet juice slip gently down my throat. I only went to town when it was absolutely necessary to replenish my store of provisions and news, and when I was there I carefully avoided my sons, having given out that I had gone on a journey. They may not have thought this story literally true, but it would have been disrespectful to contradict a report started by their father, so we kept on playing our little game of hide-and-go-seek until Martine upset it all. We had not taken her sufficiently into our calculations, and, like most of her sex, she had no idea of playing fair, and being besides thoroughly up to all my tricks, she found me without much trouble. She is anyhow a great stickler for duty, family feeling, and all that sort of thing. One evening when I was working in the garden, I caught sight of my daughter coming up the hill; I made one jump into the house, and, locking the door, lay down against the wall. In a minute or two I heard her steps, and then she tried the door, shook it, knocked, and called out to me; I lay there like a dead leaf, holding my breath, though I had a tickling in my throat and wanted dreadfully to cough. (I don’t know why, but it always happens like that.) It was not so easy to get rid of her, however; she kept battering at the door and window, and calling, “Father, let me in! I know you are there; let me in!”