A great silence had suddenly come over everything, as though it had been chased from the horizon, and the breath of solemn calm passing over the country filled her with immense anxiety. She looked at the clock, did not speak again, but kept moving her hands about from place to place.
"Ah, yes," said M. Mauperin, "there is a cloud, really, a big cloud over Fresnoy. How it is moving along! Ah, it's coming over on to our side—it's coming. Shall I shut everything up—the window and the shutters, and light up? Like that my big girl won't be so frightened."
"No," said Renée, quickly, "no lights in the daytime—no, no! And then, too," she went on, "I'm not afraid of it now."
"Oh, it is some distance off yet," said M. Mauperin, for the sake of saying something. His daughter's words had called up a vision of lighted tapers in this room.
"Ah, there's the rain," said Renée, in a relieved tone. "It's like dew, that rain is. It's as if we were drinking it, isn't it? Come here—near me."
Some large drops came down, one by one, at first. Then the water poured from the sky, as it does from a vase that has been upset. The storm broke over Morimond and the thunder rolled and burst in peals. The country round was all fire and then all dark. And at every moment in the gloomy room, lighted up with pale gleams, the flashes would suddenly cover the reclining figure of the invalid from head to foot, throwing over her whole body a shroud of light.
There was one last peal of thunder, so loud and which burst so near, that Renée threw her arms round her father's neck and hid her face against him.
"Foolish child, it's over now," said M. Mauperin; and like a bird which lifts its head a little from under its wing, she looked up, keeping her arms round him.
"Ah, I thought we were all dead!" she said, with a smile in which there was something of a regret.