If he could but summon courage enough to say, “I have told you a falsehood; I am going to the same place that you are;” but he was unwilling to incur the contempt and distrust of these good people; yet, when they told him that they had reached Villeneuve, the child could not restrain a sob. “Do not cry, my little friend,” said the kind woman; “your mother, perhaps, is not so ill as you think, and the sight of you will make her well.” At the last house the carriage stopped. “Yes, this is it,” said Jack, sadly. The good people said a kind good-bye. “How lucky you are to have finished your journey,” said the woman; “we have four good leagues before us.” Little Jack had the same, but durst not say so. He went toward the garden-gate. “Good night,” said his new friends, “good night.” He answered in a voice choked by tears, and the carriage turned toward the right. Then the child, overwhelmed with vain regrets, ran after it with all his speed; but his limbs, weakened instead of strengthened by inadequate repose, refused all service. At the end of a few rods he could go no further, but sank on the roadside with a burst of passionate tears, while the hospitable proprietors of the carriage rolled comfortably on, without an idea of the despair they had left behind them. He was cold, the earth was wet. No matter for that; he was too weary to think or to feel. The wind blows violently, and soon the poor little boy sleeps quietly. A frightful noise awakens him. Jack starts up and sees something monstrous—a howling, snorting beast, with two fiery eyes that send forth a shower of sparks. The creature dashed past, leaving behind him a train like a comet’s tail. A grove of trees, quite unsuspected by Jack, suddenly flashed out clearly; each leaf could have been counted. Not until this apparition was far away, and nothing of it was visible save a small green light, did Jack know that it was the express train. What time was it? How long had he slept? He knew not, but he felt ill and stiff in every limb. He had dreamed of Mâdou,—dreamed that they lay side by side in the cemetery; he saw Mâdou’s face, and shivered at the thought of the little icy fingers touching his own. To get away from this idea Jack resumed his weary journey. The damp earth had stiffened in the cold night wind, and his own footfall sounded in his ears so unnaturally heavy, that he fancied Mâdou was at his side or behind him. The child passes through a slumbering village; a clock strikes two. Another village, another clock, and three was sounded. Still the boy plods on, with swimming head and burning feet. He dares not stop. Occasionally he meets a huge covered wagon, driver and horses sound asleep. He asks, in a timid, tired voice, “Is it far now to Etiolles?” No answer comes save a loud snore.