that, if Urian had lived, he too might have
been in love.

"'Your uncle's daughter?' I inquired.

"'My cousin,' he replied.

"I did not say, 'your betrothed,' but I
had no doubt of it. I was mistaken,
however.

"'O  madame!' he continued, 'her
mother died long ago—her father now—and
she is in daily fear,—alone, deserted—'

"'Is she in the Abbaye?' asked I.

"'No! She is in hiding with the widow
of her father's old concierge. Every day they
may search the house for aristocrats. They are
seeking them everywhere. Then, not her life
alone, but that of the old woman, her hostess,
is sacrified.  The old woman knows this, and
trembles with fear.  Even if she be brave
enough to be faithful, her fears would betray
her, should the house be searched.  Yet, there
is no one to help Virginie to escape.  She is
alone in Paris.'

"I saw what was in his mind. He was
fretting and chafing to go to his cousin's
assistance; but the thought of his mother
restrained him. I would not have kept back
Urian from such an errand at such a time.
How should I restrain him ? And yet,
perhaps, I did wrong in not urging the chances
of danger more. Yet, if it was danger to him,
was it not the same or even greater danger to
her; for the French spared neither age nor
sex in those wicked days of terror.  So I
rather fell in with his wish, and encouraged
him to think how best and most prudently it
might be fulfilled; never doubting, as I have
said, that he and his cousin were trothplighted.

"But when I went to Madame de Créquy—
after he had imparted his, or rather our
plan to her—I found out my mistake.  She,
who was in general too feeble to walk across
the room save slowly, and with a stick
was going from end to end with quick,
tottering steps; and, if now and then she
sank upon a chair, it seemed as if she could
not rest, for she was up again in a moment,
pacing along, wringing her hands, and speaking
rapidly to herself.  When she saw me,
she stopped: 'Madame,' she said, 'you have
lost your own boy.  You might have left me
mine,'

" I was so astonished—I hardly knew what
to say. I had spoken to Clément as if his
mother's consent were secure (as I had felt
my own would have been if Urian had been
alive to ask it). Of course, both he and I
knew that his mother's consent must be
asked and obtained before he could leave her
to go on such an undertaking; but, somehow,
my blood always rose at the sight or sound
of danger; perhaps, because my life had been
so peaceful. Poor Madame de Créquy! it
was otherwise with her; she despaired while
I hoped, and Clément trusted.

"'Dear Madame de Créquy,' said I. 'He
will return safely to us; every precaution
shall be taken, that either he or you, or my
lord, or Monkshaven can think of; but he
cannot leave a girl—his nearest relation save
you—his betrothed, is she not?'

"'His betrothed!' cried she, now at the
utmost pitch of her excitement. 'Virginie
betrothed to Clément?—no! thank heaven,
not so bad as that!  Yet it might have been.
But Mademoiselle scorned my son! She
would have nothing to do with him. Now is
the time for him to have nothing to do with
her!

"Clément had entered at the door behind
his mother as she thus spoke. His face was
set and pale till it looked as grey and immovable
as if it had been carved in stone. He
came forward and stood before his mother.
She stopped her walk, threw back her
haughty head, and the two looked each other
steadily in the face.  After a minute or two
this attitude, her proud and resolute gaze never
flinching or wavering, he went down
upon one knee, and, taking her hand— her
hard, stony hand, which never closed on his,
but remained straight and stiff:

"'Mother,' he pleaded, 'withdraw your
prohibition? Let me go! '

"'What were her words ? 'Madame de
Créquy replied, slowly, as if forcing her
memory to the extreme of accuracy. 'My
cousin,' she said, 'when I marry, I marry
a man, not a petit-maître. I marry a
man who, whatever his rank may be, will
add dignity to the human race by his virtues,
and not be content to live in an effeminate
court on the traditions of past grandeur.'
She borrowed her words from the infamous
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the friend of her
scarce less infamous father,—nay!  I will say
it,—if her words, she borrowed her
principles.  And my son to request her to marry
him!'

"'It was my father's written wish,' said
Clément.

"'But did you not love her? You plead
your father's words,—words written twelve
years before,—and as if that were your
reason for being indifferent to my dislike to
the alliance.  But you requested her to
marry you,—and she refused you with
insolent contempt; and now you are ready to
leave me,—leave me desolate in a foreign
land—'

"'Desolate! my mother! and the Countess
Ludlow stands there !'

"'Pardon, madame!  But all the earth,
though it were full of kind hearts, is but a
desolation and a desert place to a mother
when her only child is absent.  And you,
Clément, would leave me for this Virginie,—
this degenerate De Créquy, tainted with the
atheism of the Encyclopédistes ! She is only
reaping some of the fruit of the harvest
whereof her friends have sown the seed. Let
her alone!  Doubtless she has friends—it
may be lovers—among these demons, who,
under the cry of liberty, commit every licence.