Michel was
near and about to manifest himself as in former times in his splendid
shrine upon the Mont. The new faith had not cast out all the old
superstitious nature; yet it was this vague spiritual presence which
supported him under the crushing and unnatural conditions of his social
life. He endured, as seeing one who is invisible.
Yet at other times he could not keep his feet away from the little
street where all the life there was might be found. At night he would
creep cautiously along the ramparts and descend by a quiet staircase
into an angle of the walls, where he could look on unseen upon the
gathering of townsfolk in the inn where he had often gone with his
father in earlier days. The landlord, Nicolas, was a most bitter enemy
now. There was the familiar room filled with bright light from an
oil-lamp and the brighter flicker of a wood fire where the landlord's
wife was cooking. A deep, low recess in the corner, with a crimson
valance stretched across it, held a bed with snow-white pillows, upon
one of which rested a child's curly head with eyes fast sealed against
the glare of the lamp. At a table close by sat the landlord and three
or four of the wealthier men of the Mont busily and seriously eating the
omelets and fried fish served to them from the pan over the fire.
The copper and brass cooking utensils glittered in the light from the
walls where they hung.
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