With loud acclamations, the mob joined in the generous enthusiasm of the moment, and followed their leader peaceably out of the village.

All this pa.s.sed with such rapidity as scarcely to leave the impression of reality upon the mind. As soon as the sun rose in the morning, Victoire looked out for the turrets of the Chateau de Fleury, and she saw that they were safe--safe in the midst of the surrounding devastation. Nothing remained of the superb palace of Chantilly but the white arches of its foundation!

CHAPTER XIII.

"When thy last breath, ere Nature sank to rest, Thy meek submission to thy G.o.d express'd; When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed; What to thy soul its glad a.s.surance gave-- Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?

The sweet remembrance of unblemish'd youth, Th'inspiring voice of innocence and truth!"

ROGERS.

The good Sister Frances, though she had scarcely recovered from the shock of the preceding night, accompanied Victoire to the Chateau de Fleury. The gates were opened for them by the old steward and his son Basile, who welcomed them with all the eagerness with which people welcome friends in time of adversity. The old man showed them the place; and through every apartment of the castle went on, talking of former times, and with narrative fondness told anecdotes of his dear master and mistress. Here his lady used to sit and read--here was the table at which she wrote--this was the sofa on which she and the ladies sat the very last day she was at the castle, at the open windows of the hall, whilst all the tenants and people of the village were dancing on the green.

"Ay, those were happy times," said the old man; "but they will never return."

"Never! Oh, do not say so," cried Victoire.

"Never during my life, at least," said the nun in a low voice, and with a look of resignation.

Basile, as he wiped the tears from his eyes, happened to strike his arm against the chord of Mad. de Fleury's harp, and the sound echoed through the room.

"Before this year is at an end," cried Victoire, "perhaps that harp will be struck again in this chateau by Mad. de Fleury herself. Last night we could hardly have hoped to see these walls standing this morning, and yet it is safe--not a stone touched! Oh, we shall all live, I hope, to see better times!"

Sister Frances smiled, for she would not depress Victoire's enthusiastic hope: to please her, the good nun added, that she felt better this morning than she had felt for months, and Victoire was happier than she had been since Mad. de Fleury left France. But, alas!

it was only a transient gleam. Sister Frances relapsed, and declined so rapidly, that even Victoire, whose mind was almost always disposed to hope, despaired of her recovery. With placid resignation, or rather with mild confidence, this innocent and benevolent creature met the approach of death. She seemed attached to earth only by affection for those whom she was to leave in this world. Two of the youngest of the children which had formerly been placed under her care, and who were not yet able to earn their own subsistence, she kept with her, and in the last days of her life she continued her instructions to them with the fond solicitude of a parent. Her father confessor, an excellent man, who never even in these dangerous times shrunk from his duty, came to attend Sister Frances in her last moments, and relieved her mind from all anxiety, by promising to place the two little children with the lady who had been abbess of her convent, who would to the utmost of her power protect and provide for them suitably. Satisfied by this promise, the good Sister Frances smiled upon Victoire, who stood beside her bed, and with that smile upon her countenance expired.--It was some time before the little children seemed to comprehend, or to believe, that Sister Frances was dead: they had never before seen any one die; they had no idea what it was to die, and their first feeling was astonishment: they did not seem to understand why Victoire wept. But the next day when no Sister Frances spoke to them, when every hour they missed some accustomed kindness from her,--when presently they saw the preparations for her funeral,--when they heard that she was to be buried in the earth, and that they should never see her more,--they could neither play nor eat, but sat in a corner holding each other's hands, and watching every thing that was done for the dead by Victoire.

In those times, the funeral of a nun, with a priest attending, would not have been permitted by the populace. It was therefore performed as secretly as possible: in the middle of the night the coffin was carried to the burial-place of the Fleury family; the old steward, his son Basile, Victoire, and the good father confessor, were the only persons present. It is necessary to mention this, because the facts were afterwards misrepresented.

CHAPTER XIV.

"The character is lost!

Her head adorn'd with lappets, pinn'd aloft, And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised, Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand For more than half the tresses it sustains."

COWPER.

Upon her return to Paris, Victoire felt melancholy; but she exerted herself as much as possible in her usual occupation; finding that employment and the consciousness of doing her duty were the best remedies for sorrow.

One day, as she was busy settling Mad. Feuillot's accounts, a servant came into the shop, and inquired for Mademoiselle Victoire: he presented her a note, which she found rather difficult to decipher.

It was signed by her cousin Manon, who desired to see Victoire at her hotel. "_Her hotel_!" repeated Victoire with astonishment. The servant a.s.sured her that one of the finest hotels in Paris belonged to his lady, and that he was commissioned to show her the way to it. Victoire found her cousin in a magnificent house, which had formerly belonged to the Prince de Salms. Manon, dressed in the disgusting, indecent extreme of the mode, was seated under a richly-fringed canopy. She burst into a loud laugh as Victoire entered.

"You look just as much astonished as I expected," cried she. "Great changes have happened since I saw you last--I always told you, Victoire, I knew the world better than you did. What has come of all your schooling, and your mighty goodness, and your grat.i.tude truly?--Your patroness is banished and a beggar, and you a drudge in the shop of a _brodeuse_, who makes you work your fingers to the bone, no doubt.--Now you shall see the difference. Let me show you my house; you know it was formerly the hotel of the Prince de Salms, he that was guillotined the other day; but you know nothing, for you have been out of Paris this month, I understand. Then I must tell you, that my friend Villeneuf has acquired an immense fortune! by a.s.signats, made in the course of a fortnight--I say an immense fortune! and has bought this fine house--Now do you begin to understand?"

"I do not clearly know whom you mean by your friend Villeneuf," said Victoire.

"The hairdresser, who lived in our street," said Manon; "he became a great patriot, you know, and orator; and, what with his eloquence and his luck in dealing in a.s.signats, he has made his fortune and mine."

"And yours! then he is your husband!"

"That does not follow--that is not necessary--but do not look so shocked--every body goes on the same way now; besides, I had no other resource--I must have starved--I could not earn my bread as you do. Besides, I was too delicate for hard work of any sort--and besides--but come, let me show you my house--you have no idea how fine it is."

With anxious ostentation, Manon displayed all her riches, to excite Victoire's envy.

"Confess, Victoire," said she at last, "that you think me the happiest person you have ever known.--You do not answer; whom did you ever know that was happier?"

"Sister Frances, who died last week, appeared to be much happier,"

said Victoire.

"The poor nun!" said Manon, disdainfully. "Well, and whom do you think the next happiest?"

"Madame de Fleury."

"An exile and a beggar!--Oh, you are jesting now, Victoire--or--envious. With that sanctified face, citoyenne--perhaps I should say Mademoiselle Victoire, you would be delighted to change places with me this instant. Come, you shall stay with me a week, to try how you like it."

"Excuse me," said Victoire, firmly; "I cannot stay with you, Manon--you have chosen one way of life, and I another--quite another.

I do not repent my choice--may you never repent yours!--Farewell!"

"Bless me! what airs! and with what dignity she looks! Repent of my choice!--a likely thing, truly. Am not I at the top of the wheel?"

"And may not the wheel turn?" said Victoire.

"Perhaps it may," said Manon; "but till it does I will enjoy myself.

Since you are of a different humour, return to Mad. Feuillot, and _figure_ upon cambric and muslin, and make out bills, and nurse old nuns, all the days of your life. You will never persuade me, however, that you would not change places with me if you could. Stay till you are tried, Mademoiselle Victoire. Who was ever in love with you, or your virtues?--Stay till you are tried."

CHAPTER XV.

"But beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree, Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard Of dragon watch with unenchanted eye To save her blossoms, or defend her fruit."

MILTON.

The trial was nearer than either Manon or Victoire expected. Manon had scarcely p.r.o.nounced the last words, when the ci-devant hairdresser burst into the room, accompanied by several of his political a.s.sociates, who met to consult measures for the good of the nation.

Among these patriots was the Abbe Traca.s.sier.

"Who is that pretty girl who is with you, Manon?" whispered he; "a friend of yours, I hope?"

Victoire left the room immediately, but not before the profligate abbe had seen enough to make him wish to see more. The next day he went to Mad. Feuillot's, under pretence of buying some embroidered handkerchiefs; he paid Victoire a profusion of extravagant compliments, which made no impression upon her innocent heart, and which appeared ridiculous to her plain good sense. She did not know who he was, nor did Mad. Feuillot; for though she had often heard of the abbe, yet she had never seen him. Several succeeding days he returned, and addressed himself to Victoire, each time with increasing freedom. Mad. Feuillot, who had the greatest confidence in her, left her entirely to her own discretion. Victoire begged her friend Annette to do the business of the shop, and stayed at work in the back parlour. Traca.s.sier was much disappointed by her absence; but as he thought no great ceremony necessary in his proceedings, he made his name known in a haughty manner to Mad. de Feuillot, and desired that he might be admitted into the back parlour, as he had something of consequence to say to Mlle. Victoire in private. Our readers will not require to have a detailed account of this tete-a-tete; it is sufficient to say, that the disappointed and exasperated abbe left the house muttering imprecations. The next morning a note came to Victoire, apparently from Manon: it was directed by her, but the inside was written by an unknown hand, and contained these words:--