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'Thank-you,' she said. 'I am so comfortable here. Now let me sleep.'

De Mesnard looked at his dripping cloak, then at his mistress.

'No, thank-you,' she said, with a weary little smile. 'That would be to give the mother of Henri Cinq rheumatism for a blanket. Good-night. I am as happy as I can be. Let me sleep-oh, let me sleep!' Was it her cry of weariness that kept Lucien waking half the night, as he tossed to and fro on the floor of the damp cattle-shed? She would never live through the dark, he fancied. When they came to look for her next day, she would be lying there cold and dead.

Here she began to mingle with remembrance of the beautiful dead girl in the village where his childhood passed.

'But she is not beautiful,' he said to himself.

Through his short, broken slumber he argued on and on with the marquis that she was not beautiful and not dead yet, and the marquis said she must be one or the other.

The turning of the stable door upon its rusty hinges woke him; the fresh air and the light rushed in together.

A dark, wild-looking girl stood on the threshold, the rosy sky behind her. He shut his eyes a moment, thanking God he was no longer in a dream. The milk fizzed down into the wooden pail. Presently the girl went out; and on the other side of the partition he heard a voice, clear and bright as the morning.

Ah, that is good of you! I should like a bowl of milk above all things. How sweet it is! how warm! I have slept well. Now let me sleep again.'

Lucien slept also till the sun was high in the heavens.

They dined that day in the cowshed, when they had moved the barrel into the centre for a table.

'It is like the barn in "Redgauntlet," Madame said. We will have a dance here some day.' 'Look!' the farmer's wife whispered, pointing out her guests to her three thin, solemn children. These are the Owls.'

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The children nodded, but said nothing. 'You may trust them,' said the farmer. The babies of la Vendée have no tongues.'

'Have they not?' cried Madame; and in a few minutes one of them was seated on her knee, feeding her with green soup out of his porringer, while the other two were in hot dispute as to who should offer her the hunch of black bread, and the largest and brownest of new-laid eggs, boiled hard as a stone.

'What a dear little gentleman that is!' muttered the dark-eyed milkmaid to her father.

Lucien's heart went out to her. He loved enthusiastically all people who loved Madame.

Towards evening Jacinth de la Roberie arrived from the ancient house of la Mouchetière, where he lived as his ancestors lived before him.

'The name of pure devotion might be Jacinth de la Roberie,' René declared. 'Madame is our causeyours and mine; but she is his religion.'

Lucien looked at the small gray man with jealous interest. A full crest of gray hair crowned a head not otherwise remarkable. He wore a short gray beard like a goat. The eyes were of a dull water gray, as if they had often wept.

He spoke of de Courson's magnificent Division-of Gaulier of the perfect confidence of Cathelineau, a man worthy of the heroic name he bore.

'Do you bring us any news of the commander-inchief on the left bank of the Loire?' the duchess asked, as they sat talking together.

'Alas, no, Madame!'

'It does not matter. I am sure of him-as sure as I am of you, my brave field marshal of the future.'

'As my fathers were, I am,' he said. 'If fidelity were all, your son would be upon the throne to-day, Madame.'

To-day or to-morrow. What does it matter? The day after we shall think it was just the same. You have a little boy, I think?'

The father smiled.

'Ah!' she said. 'I must go to la Mouchetière; I should like to see him. I love all little fellows.'

'I wish we had news of d'Autichamp,' murmured de Monti.

CHAPTER XVI

TOO MANY MARQUISES

NEXT day, when they reached the estate known as le Magazin, a messenger rode in with the Order for the rising on the 24th, countersigned by the general on the left bank of the Loire.

'I told you it would be so,' Madame said. 'Now we must meet those others; we shall have something to say to them.'

De Charette smiled pleasantly.

The abbé Pineau, prior of St. Etienne-de-Corcoué, dined that evening. To him, as to Jacinth de la Roberie, the sight of Madame was as the sight of an angel. He drew Lucien on to tell him little stories of her courage, her cheerfulness and kindness.

'Ah!' he said, with a sigh, 'God has sent her to this distracted country. If we are but thought worthy to follow

'The silly romantic duchess of Berry and her absurd baby.'

The words came across Lucien with a sense of trouble and shame, as though they had been blasphemous.

Half a mile back from the highroad stood their inn for that night, the desolate farm of le Meslier. In front a garden, free from rail or fence, rambled away to a great, straggling vineyard. Behind, a rickety

open staircase led from the huge barns on the upper story into a walled courtyard paved with mossy stone.

'If you fed the hens on Indian corn, my good woman, you would have a more constant supply of eggs.' Did Lucien dream these words in the morning, or was it a well-known voice that came up to him through the holes in the floor of the barn where he had slept? He could not think it was a dream; he was not given to dream about cocks and hens.

He dressed himself and ran down.

'Can you tell me whether the marquis is here?' he asked breathlessly of de Monti.

My dear Sylvestre, how do I know? Half a dozen marquises are about the place. You may take your choice. One arrived late last night, and went away a short time since, saying he would return. He did not give his name; to my mind he looked more like marquis than the rest. Benjamin de Goyon is expected, and the marquis de Tinguy. The marquis de Goulaine has just come. Which marquis do you want?'

'Thank-you,' said Lucien. 'I will wait for the one without a name. Where is your uncle?'

'Gone to la Louvardière to confer with de la Roberie about the rising of the third army corps. (René has gone too.) He confided Madame to de Goulaine; but she is busy upstairs. Two days more! We have very little time.'

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'We may all be dead in two days; it is as likely as not.'

'Likely is a ridiculous word. If you have any sense in your head, it does not exist.'

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