because everything on that fateful night had been accomplished by themselves alone.
It is much easier, however, to shut one's eyes to the past than to rub it off the slate: there is such a thing as memory, and, when we met face to face, it was awkward for both parties. I could see that they had a lurking dread of me, and to tell the truth I was rather afraid myself of this absurd unknown Breugnon, who had suddenly sprung up and performed such exploits. I had never supposed myself to be an Attila or a Cæsar; my eloquence had hitherto been inspired by wine rather than by war; — and in short on both sides we were shamefaced and out of sorts in mind and body. There is no remedy like hard work, and as the riots had provided plenty to do for every one in the town, we all went at it with the utmost energy. The ruins had to be cleared away first; then by good luck the harvest that year was unusually abundant, both in grain and fruit; and as for the vintage, the oldest inhabitant could remember nothing to equal it.
Our good Mother Earth seemed to have drunk so much of our blood, only that she might restore it to us in generous wine: for nothing in this world is really wasted or lost; everything has to go somewhere. If the rain falls from the clouds and is drawn up to them again, then why should not the
