He opened the door suddenly and darted down the stairs, striking out with his fists, and with such whirling rapidity, that the poor fellows in pursuit of him had nothing but their pains for their labour in the long and fruitless chase which followed. Marianne breathed again--he was saved. Saved, yes--but what was to become of him? During the greater part of the night she stood with her face pressing the windowpane, shuddering at the slightest sound made without, expecting every moment to see him re-appear. For an instant a cold perspiration burst out upon her forehead; it was a troop of soldiers, a whole battalion of infantry, the commander at its head, passing under her windows, and when the sound of their feet had died away into the icy silence of the night, it was the turn of cavalry, the iron hoofs of the horses clattering upon the frosted pavement in the moonlight. It was part of a regiment of dragoons, with down-bent heads, enveloped in their grey cloaks and sabre in hand. V.--A GLEAM OF GAIETY. Three weeks passed after that, and the strike still continued--the strike--that is to say, the ruin of the country, discomfort to the rich, misery to the poor, excitement amongst the masses, alarm everywhere. Jacques Houdaille had not reappeared. He knew that a warrant for his arrest was out against him, and he was not so stupid as to come and throw himself into the wolf's jaws. Several of his comrades had been arrested and were awaiting their trial. What would become of them? Poor fellows! They still held up their heads behind the bars of their prison. Their counsel, a tall, thin man, who wished to fatten himself and become a somebody at the Bar, excited them in their bravado. He quite well knew what he was about, that glib speaker; in any case, it was they, poor creatures, who would pay for the broken pottery. Jacques Houdaille, more fortunate, was still at liberty. But where was he? How would he escape? Marianne had heard no news of him, and while awaiting the end of all those misfortunes, she had to live, and that was hard to do--nothing left, and four mouths to feed. At last--for a fortnight past, at least--she had obtained work. Some persons had had pity on her, and had promised to do something for her children. It had come to be recognised that neither she nor her little ones were responsible for the faults of the wretched husband. On the morning of the 24th December some of these charitably-disposed persons had gone to see her. The next day was a day of rest, and, on the occasion of the Christmas holidays, had brought for her children new and warm winter clothing.