But Armand was weak. His friends and family, who had fallen away from him at the time of his marriage, now sought to bring him back. He resisted for a time, but at last went to Versailles. The king received him proudly and said, "Monsieur de Fongereues, it is not well in you to abandon us thus. The throne needs its faithful supporters."

A few days later he was presented to Mademoiselle de Maillezais--her beauty was of that quality that dazzles rather than pleases. She made herself very attractive on this occasion, anxious to take back to the king this n.o.bleman who had so nearly been lost.

In 1779, Armand married this lady. Simon, the peasant's son, was then five years of age. When his father spoke of him to his wife some little time after their marriage, she replied:

"You will, of course, do as you choose, but I should say that any change would be likely to injure his health."

The Marquis was glad to seize any excuse for keeping Simonne's son away from that society which his mother had so strongly condemned. It was with the feeling, therefore, that he was obeying the wishes of his beloved dead, that he left Simon among the mountains.

It was at this time that the war begun by the enemies of Nechar against his innovations reached its height. The n.o.bles and the clergy, feeling their privileges attacked, organized against the Genoese banker a campaign in which he was to fall. The Maillezais family were Nechar's pitiless adversaries, and in spite of himself the Marquis was carried along with them. His wife had acquired a supremacy over him that daily increased. His weak nature was ever ready to be influenced by others, and his natural enthusiasm originally aroused by Simonne for another cause, was perverted to the profit of the _ancien regime_, and finally he was one of the first to applaud the words of Louis XVI., when he signed his name to an edict which inflicted on the country a new debt of four hundred and twenty million.

"It is _legal_ because _I wish it_."

Nevertheless, the Marquis often thought of Simonne when he was alone. He recalled her beautiful, energetic face, her pathetic, eloquent words.

Then he longed to see her son, whom his present wife hated. She herself had become a mother; the Vicomte Jean Talizac had been held at the baptismal font by the Queen Marie Antoinette.

The Marquise determined to oust Simon from his place in his father's heart. She but half succeeded in this, and was too wise to attack the memory of the dead.

The Marquis wrote in secret to his son, and occasionally went to see him among the Vosges, and embraced the lad, who inherited all his mother's intelligence and goodness.

Then the Vicomte returned like a truant schoolboy to Versailles, and the Marquise brought in her boy with an expression that seemed to say, "This is your boy! He is the one in whose veins runs only n.o.ble blood!"

In 1787 the Marquis was dangerously ill. His wife was devoted to him, and one day when he was in a critical condition she said, gently:

"Shall I send for the peasant's child?"

He closed his eyes and did not reply. When, after long weeks of illness, he was restored to health, he belonged to the Marquise. He never spoke of his eldest child, and adored Jean.

Then came the emigration. Monsieur de Fongereues, friend of Conde and of Polignac, yielded to his wife's entreaties and joined the Prince de Conde at Worms, where he was making an appeal to foreign powers against France. Although yielding to the wishes of the Marquise, De Fongereues was fully aware that it was a base act to desert his country, and excite against her the hatred of her most violent enemies. Young Simon, the son of the peasant, could not join in this parricidal act, although the Marquis sent Pierre Labarre, who was even then in his service, to his son, then fifteen years of age, to sound his views. If the youth would enter the army of Conde, the Marquis a.s.sured him a brilliant future. If he remained in France, however, he could no longer rely on his father, who, however, sent him a large sum of money. The youth refused the money, and replied:

"Say to my father that I love him, and that if ever he requires a devoted heart and a courageous arm that he may summon me to his side; but now, if I am to choose between poverty in my own country and wealth in a foreign land, I remain here!"

"It was Simonne's soul that spoke through his lips!" murmured the Marquis, when Pierre repeated the message sent by the young man.

The father and son did not meet after 1790. We will now return to Fribourg, to that room where Pierre Labarre had just told the Marquis that Simon was living.

Twenty-five years had elapsed--twenty-five years of anguish and sorrow for the Marquis. He had seen France fighting with heroic energy against all Europe. He had heard the enthusiastic shouts of 1792, and then the dull groans of the people crushed under the heel of the conqueror. And while his country bled and fought, the Marquis blushed with shame in London, Berlin and Vienna when his French ears heard the maledictions of the conquered.

As soon as his son, the Vicomte Jean, reached the age of twenty, he had become one of the most active agents of the coalition, and, as if to indicate his hatred of France, married a German.

From that time the Marquis heard nothing but abuse of France, nothing but exultation when her sons fell in Spain or in Russia. The old man's heart was sore within him, but it was then too late for him to make a stand, and he was obliged to live on amid this hatred.

Once only did Jean go to France to lend his aid to Cadondal's conspiracy, but he was obliged to flee precipitately, and with difficulty succeeded in gaining the frontier. On his return he was in a state of sullen rage. Was it despair at his lack of success, or did the Vicomte feel any remorse? His father watched him with troubled eyes and many fears, but did not dare ask a question.

What had become of Simon? The Marquis had read in a newspaper that a Simon Fougere carried the orders of the day at the battle of Hohenlinden. He leaped at once at the truth. Simonne's son was fighting for his country, while his other son, the Vicomte de Talizac, was fighting against it.

Suddenly the Marquis beheld the fall of the Imperial idol. The allied armies were in France. Vengeance was near at hand!

Three times the Marquis sent Pierre to France, but the faithful servant could learn nothing of Simon, but this last time he discovered that Simon was living. Pierre had been in the service of the Marquis for forty years. He had known Simonne, and felt for his master the deepest affection. He was of the people, and only this affection had induced him to leave France. By degrees he had become the confidant of his master, and read his half-broken heart like an open book, and realized that it was full of regrets, almost of remorse. Then he swore to himself that he would aid the Marquis to repair the injustice done to Simon. It is needless to say that Pierre's honest nature felt no sympathy for the Marquise. She, on the contrary, was the object of his deepest aversion, for he well knew that she had done her best to have him dismissed from the service of the Marquis.

The Vicomte de Talizac, the Vicomtesse, and their son, detested Pierre and watched him closely, with what aim they alone knew.

"I went to the Vosges, master," said Pierre. "I learned that the soldier known by the name of Simon Fougere had gone to Lorraine. I could learn nothing more. I went about everywhere--to Epinal, Nancy, Saint Die--and I had begun to despair, when one evening I reached the foot of a mountain and saw a little cl.u.s.ter of houses. I asked a peasant who was pa.s.sing if I could procure accommodations there for the night.

"Of course," he answered. "Go straight ahead and you will come to friend Simon's inn."

The Marquis listened breathlessly. Pierre continued:

"The name was a common one in that part of the country, as I had good reason to know, but this time my heart began to beat. I thanked the peasant and I hurried on. And when I think that a Comte de Fongereues----"

"It was he, then!" cried the Marquis, s.n.a.t.c.hing his servant's hands.

"And you saw him? Tell me everything!"

"He is happy," answered Pierre. "But, master, let me tell my story in my own way, for then I shall forget nothing. I went into a little inn, which was as clean as possible and bore the sign, 'France!' A fire of vine branches was sparkling in the big chimney. A boy of about ten came to meet me. 'My friend,' I said, 'is this the inn of Monsieur Simon?'"

"'Yes, sir,' he replied, looking at me with soft, dark eyes. I felt as if I had seen him before."

"What! do you mean----" cried the Marquis.

"Wait, master, wait. I told him that I wanted supper and a bed. The boy ran toward a little door and called: 'Mamma! Mamma!' A woman appeared in peasant dress, with dark hair and eyes. She carried a little girl on one arm. The mother looked about thirty, and the girl was some six years of age.

"'Take a chair, sir,' said the mistress of the house. 'We will do the best we can for you.' Then she told the boy to take the horse to the stable and call his father. I took my seat by the fire and reflected that Simon would not be likely to know me, if it were he, as he had not seen me for thirty years. You had bidden me take care not to betray myself, but I knew that Time had done his work.

"'The country about here looks very dreary,' I said to Madame Simon. She turned in surprise from her work. She was laying the table for my supper.

"'Ah! you are a stranger here!' she answered with a smile. 'No, it is not dreary; it is much pleasanter here than in the cities.'

"'But in winter?' I persisted.

"'Oh! the mountains are magnificent then.'

"'Have you been living here long, Madame?'

"'Ten years,' she replied.

"'And these beautiful children are yours?'

"She hesitated a moment, or I thought so, but she said in a moment:

"'Yes, they are mine, and you will see their father presently, the best man in this place!' She brought in a bowl of steaming soup. 'Excuse the simplicity of the service, sir.' The door opened, and, master, if it had been in Africa, or thousands of miles from France, I should have known Simonne's son. He had his great deep eyes, but, master----"

Pierre stopped short.

"Go on; you frighten me!" cried the Marquis.

"Oh! master, Monsieur Simon has lost a leg. I saw it at once, and the tears came to my eyes. He lost it at Elchingen, in 1805--it was shot off by a cannon ball."

The Marquis started.