"Ah, what desecration!" exclaimed my mother.
"Keep your regrets for the sufferings of living people, my good lady," said La Croissette. "Stones have no feeling, and are not prone to revenge insult. 'Tis said, walls have ears. The walls of La Calade have, at all events, a tongue; for on the summit of the ruins lies a stone with these words on it, 'Lo, this is the house of God; this is the gate of heaven!'"
Then addressing my father, he said. "The very fact of the public attention being drawn to this point makes other parts of the city comparatively deserted, and therefore favors your escape. Lose no time, I advise you, in availing yourselves of it."
We exchanged our last embraces in tears, and they went forth, he following them. I felt inexpressibly lonely and sad.
Just as I was beginning to get uneasy at his absence, and to think, "What if he should never come back?" he returned.
"They are safely off now," said he, "and little know what peril they have been in here. Another twelve hours, and they would all have been taken. Now, then, let us bestir ourselves, young man. They call you Jacques; but I shall call you Jean, after my younger brother."
Helped on by him, I hobbled along, though in pain. How chill, but how fresh and pleasant, felt the open air! It seemed the breath of life to me, and revived me like a potent medicine. There was a distant, sullen murmur in the city, but around us all was still. Above us were bright stars, but no moon.
At length we got among low dwellings, some of which had twinkling lights. We entered a dark, narrow passage, smelling powerfully of fried fish and onions. Some one from above said cautiously, "Who goes there?"
"La Croissette."
"Who else?"