Twenty-five years of vassalage bow me before her and fill me with silence.

And I salute the Gozlans also, in a way which I feel is humble in spite of myself, for they are all-powerful over me, and they make Marie an allowance without which we could not live properly.

I am no more than a man.
I see Tudor, whose eyes were damaged in Artois, hesitating and groping.
The Baroness has found a little job for him in the castle kitchens.
"Isn't she good to the wounded soldiers ?" they are saying around me.
"She's a real benefactor!" This time I say aloud, "_There_ is the real benefactor," and I point to the ruin which the young man has become whom we used to know, to the miserable, darkened biped whose eyelids flutter in the daylight, who leans weakly against a tree in face of the festive crowd, as if it were an execution post.
"Yes--after all--yes, yes," the people about me murmur, timidly; they also blinking as though tardily enlightened by the spectacle of the poor benefactor.
But they are not heard--they hardly even hear themselves--in the flood of uproar from a brass band.

A triumphal march goes by with the strong and sensual driving force of its, "Forward! You shall _not_ know!" The audience fill themselves with brazen music, and overflow in cheers.
The ceremony is drawing to a close.

They who were seated on the rostrum get up.