The houses broke up, and became replaced by trees; market-gardens lay on either side of the way. Looking back, I could see Paris. Not the city, but the furnace glare that its gas-lit streets and cafés cast on the sky. We passed forts, huge black shadows marked in the darkness by the glitter of a sentry's bayonet or the swinging lantern of a patrol. We passed down the long street of Charenton, and then the wheels of the carriage rumbled on the bridge that crosses the river, and we were in the true country, with great spaces of gloom marking the fields, and marked here and there with the dim, patient light of a farmhouse window or the firefly dance of a shepherd's lantern. Up till now I had watched intently the passing objects: the houses, stray people, and lights; but now there was nothing to watch but dim shapes and vague shadows. Up to this I had controlled thought, forcing myself to wait without thinking for the event, but now, alone in the midst of night, with nothing to tell of the surrounding world but the rumble of the carriage wheels and the beat of the horse-hoofs on the road, thought assumed dominance, and would not be driven away. Nay, it returned with a suggestion that froze my heart. "If she has gone to the Pavilion, she will leave her carriage in the Avenue and go there on foot--she will cross the drawbridge. Ah, yes; the drawbridge! Well, suppose that the drawbridge is up! God in heaven! will she see it?" It froze my heart. What time would Madame Ancelot retire, and would she raise the drawbridge? I knew very well that the drawbridge was always raised, last thing at night: the tramp-infested forest made this necessary. And I knew very well that Madame Ancelot was in the habit of retiring at nine o'clock. Still, to-night was a night in a thousand. Old Fauchard had, without doubt, dropped into the Pavilion to talk about the great news of the war. I put my head out of the window. "Quicker, Joubert!" "Oui, oui," came his voice, followed by the sound of the whip. The night air struck me in the face like a cold hand; and, looking back, I could still see the light of Paris reflected from the sky, paler now and more contracted in the vast and gloomy circle of night. It was cloudy over Paris, but the clouds were breaking, and the piercing light of a star, here and there, shone through the rents. The moon was rising, too, and her light touched the clouds. Ah! this must be Villeneuve St. Georges, this long street to which the trees and hedgerows have given place. I know the road to Etiolles well, but to-night it all seemed changed.