There were cross-currents, though. The main, broad, shining stream
poured downwards in front of them towards the opening of the Cave, a
mile or two beyond, where the forests dipped down among the precipices
of the Areuse; but from behind--from some house in the slumbering
village--came a golden tributary too, that had a peculiar and
astonishing brightness of its own. It came, so far as they could make
out, from the humped outline of La Citadelle, and from a particular
room there, as though some one in that building had a special source
of supply. Moreover, it scattered itself over the village in separate
swift rivulets that dived and dipped towards particular houses here
and there. There seemed a constant coming and going, one stream
driving straight into the Cave, and another pouring out again, yet
neither mingling. One stream brought supplies, while the other
directed their distribution. Some one, asleep or awake--they could not
tell--was thinking golden thoughts of love and sympathy for the world.
'It's Mlle. Lemaire,' said Jimbo. 'She's been in bed for thirty
years---' His voice was very soft.
'The Spine, you know,' exclaimed Monkey, a little in the rear.
'----and even in the daytime she looks white and shiny,' added the
boy. 'I often go and talk with her and tell her things.
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