“And you will enjoy yourselves to-day?”
“That we will!”
“Processions?”
“Aye! with music and dancing.”
Out there, far away, beyond the harbour, the grey light of dawn was yielding to the crimson glow of morning. The rain had ceased and heavy slaty clouds parted here and there, displaying glints of delicate turquoise sky, and tiny ethereal vapours in the dim and remote distance of infinity, flecked with touches of rose and gold.
The towers and pinnacles of old Boulogne detached themselves one by one from the misty gloom of night. The old bell of the Beffroi tolled the hour of six. Soon the massive cupola of Notre Dame was clothed in purple hues, and the gilt cross on St. Joseph threw back across the square a blinding ray of gold.
The town sparrows began to twitter, and from far out at sea in the direction of Dunkirk there came the muffled boom of cannon.
“And remember, my pigeons,” admonished Auguste Moleux solemnly, “that in this order which Robespierre has sent from Paris, it also says that from to-day onwards le bon Dieu has ceased to be!”
Many faces were turned towards the East just then, for the rising sun, tearing with one gigantic sweep the banks of cloud asunder, now displayed his magnificence in a gorgeous immensity of flaming crimson. The sea, in response, turned to liquid fire beneath the glow, whilst the whole sky was irradiated with the first blush of morning.
Le bon Dieu has ceased to be!