“That is not doubtful,” replied the curé; “but perhaps one day we will see him again.”

“I begin to despair of it,” said she. “He left heart-broken, and perhaps now he detests me.”

“Perhaps? Perhaps, my daughter, can mean yes as well as no; why should it not be no?”

“Ah! if I only knew!” said she.

“Well, what would you do?”

“I would write to him that I love him,” she cried, clasping her hands; “and I would beg him to come and tell me that he pardons me, and take his place again at home; for the house will always be his, whether I live or die; and although I have done very wrong, he would listen to me, don't you think so, father?”

“Yes,” said the curé, much touched; “he is a person who never cherished rancor against any one. Write to him, my child, and tell him all you wish; your letter will reach him.”

“Ah! you know where he is? I thought so,” said she joyfully.

“Yes, indeed! I know where he is, and I will now tell you, my dear daughter. He is in Paris, where he wants for nothing; and if you are good, if you will stop crying, I will read you some of his letters, which will make you happy.”

“Oh! I promise you that I will be good. I will not cry any more—never again,” cried the poor little creature, who instantly began to sob, by way of keeping her promise.

But they were tears of joy this time, and the curé let them flow without reproof. They entered Muiceron together, and Jeannette, without any preambulation, threw herself on her mother's breast, crying out that Jeannet was coming back. Pierrette, who desired it as ardently as she, asked to be excused for one moment, that she might run off and tell Ragaud, who was sowing clover near the house. It was right that they should be all together to hear such welcome news; but scarcely had the good woman reached the door, than she knocked against Jacques Michou, who had just crossed the threshold.

“Jean-Louis! Jean-Louis is coming back!” said Pierrette, as she passed him. “Come in, Jacques Michou; I will be back in a second.”

Michou entered in his usual tranquil manner. He saluted the curé and Jeanne without showing the least excitement.

“Who says that Jeannet is coming back?” he asked.

“We don't say he is coming back,” replied the curé, “but that he will return home.”

“All very well,” answered Michou; “but, for the present, that is not to be thought of.”

“My God!” cried Jeanne, “what has happened?”

“The revolution in Paris,” said Michou; “and this time it is real. Here is a letter from M. le Marquis, who tells me that in three days from now all will be fire and blood. He orders me to join him—Jeannet is with him—and I will take guns for everybody.”

So once again everybody at Muiceron became gloomy and miserable, as each day brought its fresh contingent of sad news. For if, in the city and among learned men, where there is every chance of correct information, every one appears half crazy in time of public calamity, and in a fever to talk all kinds of nonsense, you can imagine what it is in a village, where one is obliged to listen to the neighbors and gossips, who always improve on the most absurd reports. It is true, also, that they never see a paper, and it is lucky if they preserve a few gleams of good sense; but what each one draws from his own private source amply suffices to bewilder everybody.

I, who speak to you, and who was very young at the time of this revolution, remember well to have heard it positively affirmed that the king, Louis Philippe, and his family had been crucified in front of their château, then cut in little pieces, boiled, and eaten by the people! And when, in addition, it was said that the waters of the Seine had formed a magnificent cascade from the heaped-up corpses, and were red with blood as far as the bridge at Rouen, I did not think the thing incredible, and, with great simplicity, I always awaited still more extraordinary news.

I remember, also, that a band of our most respectable young men took turns every night in mounting guard around the château of Val-Saint, because it was known, from a trustworthy source, that the cellars contained more than a hundred barrels of powder, ready to blow up at the shortest notice. Now, to ask how so many barrels, the least of which weighed as much as a tun of wine, could have been placed there without being seen, is what no person thought of; and the reflection, what man, sufficiently desirous of putting an end to his days by bringing that enormous building down upon him (a thing which could profit no one), would be capable of setting fire to the powder, still less entered their heads; and yet terror was at its height at the mere thought of an explosion so tremendous that it would have broken all windows for two leagues round. And thus it is that good people, without wishing it, lend their hands to the revolution.

Jeannette, then, with the consent of M. le Curé, wrote a long and touching letter, which she addressed to Solange, in which she poured forth all the warmth and fire of her little heart. The poor child dared not write directly to Jeannet, in the fear that new events might prevent his receiving the missive; but she did not doubt that Solange would find means to read it to him who would receive so much consolation from its contents. The misfortune was that, in the midst of the fray, that good girl could hear nothing about her old friend; and, between ourselves, it was, I believe, because she had no permission to mix herself up in the affair, as she lived retired and absorbed in prayer with the other young sisters of the novitiate. It therefore followed that when Jeannet, in his turn, wrote to M. le Curé, it seemed, from the quiet, sad, and cold tone of his letter, that he knew nothing of this step of Jeannette's, or, if he knew it, he attached no importance to it, and wished them to understand it was too late to repair matters.

It was this last idea which fastened itself in the child's head as firmly as a nail in the wood. She became profoundly sad, which, according to her habit, she concealed as much as possible; and thus passed weeks and months without anything further being said of the return of the dear boy, so fondly desired by all at Muiceron.

So far affairs in Paris went on quietly, and the people who believed in scaffolds began to think they might sign the lease between their shoulders and heads. For now that all this fine story is over, it must be avowed the first part of the revolution was more laughable than terrible. I had it from Michou, who was present and witnessed many things in detail, which were served up for our amusement during many of the following winters. The good man never wearied of relating how the great city of Paris, that had driven off a king from a desire of giving herself a hundred thousand in his place, played at comedy for three months, for the sole purpose, I suppose, of affording other countries a perpetual diversion. Once, for example, in remembrance of spring-time, a crowd of little trees were planted at all the corners, as signs of liberty; and as, for this amusement, each man became a gardener on his own hook, without ever having learned the trade, you can imagine what chance these precious emblems of freedom had of flourishing. It is not necessary to say that they fell down and were trodden under foot in a very short time, so that the beautiful green ornaments were renounced at the end of a few days!

Another time, the street-boys assembled and formed the brilliant resolution that they would have a general illumination. And then—I really would not have believed it, if Jacques Michou had not vouched for the truth—these ragamuffins ran in troops through the streets, hand-in-hand, shouting out a song which had but two words, always sung to the same tune.

I will only ask, if the king or our holy father, the Pope, had exacted such a thing even once, what would have been said? There was also the farce of the laborers, who were out of work, taking the air, and marching by thousands along the quays to the great château, where five or six fine men who were called the government resided, and who were very brave in words, but became half crazy when it was time to act; which must not be wondered at, as their task was none of the easiest. The men arrived, they would send one of their number to ask some little favor, which was sure to be promised for next day. Then they returned the same as they came, and so much the worse for those who were found in their way that day; for not a cat could have come out alive among so many legs. This amusement was called “a manifestation.” But to say what was ever manifested except want and misery in every house—for when such promenades are made, no work is done—is what you may learn, perhaps, sooner than I, if the day of discovery will ever come.

During this time, they pretended to make laws for the country, in a large building where a great number of men from the provinces talked themselves hoarse every day, insulting each other, and even, I have been told, flung whatever they happened to have near at hand at one another's heads; so that he who appeared the master of all, and was called president, was forced to speak with a great bell, as he could no longer make his voice heard. For those who liked noise all this row was very amusing; but quiet people were obliged to shut their eyes and stop up their ears. In my opinion, instead of being contented with that, they should have descended into the streets, and enforced order with heavy blows of the cudgel; but, if they thought of that later, for the time being good people seemed asleep, which emboldened the rabble to such a degree they thought themselves masters of the situation.

You doubtless think our dear good master, M. le Marquis, was discouraged at seeing the republic established in place of his cherished hopes. Not at all. On the contrary, he was as ardent and fiery as ever, assured that it was “a necessary transition”—a phrase which I repeat as I heard it, without pretending to explain it, and which, probably, was profoundly wise. He was very busy coming and going with his friends, and arranging all, in words, for the approaching arrival of the young legitimate prince, who remained near the frontier with a large army, invisible for the time, but ready to march at a moment's notice.

There was not much amusement going on in society. Rich people stayed at home, and guarded their money, which was carefully concealed in some secure place, ready to fly in case of necessity; as for out-door amusements, none were thought of. M. le Marquis had something else to do than drive out with his daughter; and to circulate around among the manifestations was not the most pleasant performance—far from it. Poor mademoiselle seemed doomed to the miserable fate of always running after some distraction, fêtes, and other disturbances of that kind, without ever finding them. Add to all this, she was in a constant state of fear, as she was little accustomed to the cries, songs, patrols, and threats which filled the capital. Her only consolation was to hope that there would soon be an end of all this; and Dame Berthe encouraged her to be patient, showing herself all the while full of the idea of the near triumph of the cause, as she said. And mean-time, while waiting for it, she embroidered little strips of white satin by the dozen, to decorate the belts of the king's officers when the triumphal entry would be made into Paris.

Their happiest moment was in the evening, when these five persons, drawn together through friendship and devotion, were reunited to talk over the events of the day, and to plan for the next. M. le Marquis ordered the servants off to bed—for they were not sure but there might be spies among them—and, keeping Jeannet and Michou, he joyfully laid before them all his plans and hopes. Jean-Louis listened with one ear; and fortunate was it that respect prevented him from joining in the conversation, as his remarks might have been very malàpropos. Can you guess why? He thought of other things; and while his master soared away in imagination to the frontier, where the invisible army of the king manœuvred, in heart and soul he was in the beloved spot, where he lived over again the happy days of his childhood.

And thus they advanced, without knowing it, to the terrible days which gave the death-blow to the republic, in the midst of the blood of so many honest men, which flowed and mingled with that of the rabble, for love of good order, which could easily have been established without so much suffering. Alas! it was not the first time in our gay, beautiful France that things have begun with songs and pleasant jokes, and ended amid the noise of cannon and the cries and lamentations of the wounded.

It is always so with women (I must make the remark); they torture without mercy, or at least with very little thought, the poor hearts which become attached to them; and then the day they feel pain in their turn all must end in the quickest manner, otherwise they will die; and then, again, they will have all the pity and sympathy on their side. So our two dear children made up and became friends with a few words written on paper; and enchanted were they both, I can assure you. Now it was easy to wait. Jean-Louis, in his answer, showed the same heart, the same tenderness, as formerly. He wished no excuses from his sister, saying that all the fault was on his side—which was a big story, as every one could see but himself, and made them both laugh and weep at Muiceron. As for his return, it was not necessary to promise anything. They knew well that the day duty would no longer detain him he would take the first train and our good friends, the Ragauds, while not wishing him to leave M. le Marquis, commenced to prepare for the happy moment, so ardently desired by all.

Ragaud told the women it was not the time for economy, and the following week he called in the painters and the masons to replaster all the house, and to give it an air of freshness inside, which, I must acknowledge, was very much needed. Jeannette directed the changes in Jean-Louis' room, and I can assure you she spared nothing, and spent at least fifty francs of her father's crowns in a splendid paper for the walls, which was yellow, covered with large bouquets of bright flowers that had the most beautiful effect. The month of June found them busily occupied; and then they began to count, not the days, but the hours, that would separate Jean-Louis from the dear home that had adopted him.

His last letter announced his speedy departure. The joy at Muiceron, and its holiday look, was touching to see. Jeannette, pink and white, like an eglantine rose, had never looked prettier.

Suddenly, one morning, M. le Curé entered the farm, and, in the midst of all this happiness, pronounced these terrible words:

“My children, they are fighting in Paris, and we must pray to God, for the danger has never been greater; happy those who will come safe out of it!”

At the end of these three days, at last the cry was heard from all the barracks, “Forward!” And as in the time of the great Napoleon, generals in fine uniforms and waving plumes dashed about on horseback, and there was a terrific noise of cannon and musketry. How terrible was the anger of the Lord! For these enemies, who grappled in the fierce death-struggle, were children of the same mother, and yet forgot it in the midst of their senseless fury and thirst for vengeance, when, in truth, they had nothing to avenge.

What more shall I tell you? You know it all better than I; perhaps you were there; and, besides, it is not so long ago that you cannot remember it; and when you recall it, pray fervently to the good God such a time may never again be ours.

When the battalions moved, every honest citizen left his bed, and armed, to be ready to assist the army. M. le Marquis was one of the first on the scene, accompanied by his two body-guards. Mademoiselle, when she saw them leave, wept, and threw herself on her knees in her room, unwilling to listen to Dame Berthe, who still could have the heart to speak of “the triumph of the right,” so rooted in her head was this fixed idea. Leave these poor women, more to be pitied than blamed, lamenting and praying to God, while listening, with hearts half dead with agony, to the noise of the battle, and we will see what became of the combatants.

When they left the house, there was no appearance of extraordinary excitement, and even the quarter where M. le Marquis lived, very quiet at all times, seemed calmer even than usual, for the very good reason that, of all who occupied it, those that were brave ran elsewhere, and the cowards buried themselves, like moles, in the cellars. Our friends first went down one long street, crossed a second, a third, and only then, when coming up to a great bridge with a Prussian name very difficult to spell—and therefore I cannot write it—began to see and hear the horrors of the deadly combat.

M. le Marquis stopped.

“Friends,” said he, “let us make the sign of the cross; perhaps one of us will not return to sleep in his bed, but may be killed, wounded, or made prisoner. It is well to provide ourselves with a passport for the other world, and one more blessing for this one.”

And this excellent gentleman instantly put in practice what he preached, pronouncing aloud the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

“Come,” said he joyously, “I feel younger by ten years. Ah! while I think of it, have you white cockades in your pockets?”

“Faith! no,” said Michou; “I confess to M. le Marquis I did not dream of taking that precaution. But we need not worry about that; if we want them, I will tear off an end of my shirt.”

Jean-Louis had been equally forgetful of the white cockades; M. le Marquis told them their heads were turned, but forgot to add he was in the same fix; for they had rushed to arms in such a hurry, each one had only taken time to dress quickly and seize his gun, so ardently desirous were they to see the end of the masters of Paris.

Soon they were in the midst of the troops and a crowd of volunteers like themselves.

The fight was hot. The height and solidity of the barricades, for the most part cemented with stone and mortar like ramparts, forced them to establish a siege; and the thick walls that sheltered the rioters were only destroyed with the aid of cannon, and after many deaths. I must be frank, and say it was not a war very much to the taste of our soldiers, who like to see the faces of the enemies at whom they aim; neither, as a first effort, was it very amusing for our friend Jeannet, who had never before seen any fire but that in the chimney at Muiceron. So when he found himself in the midst of the scuffle, surrounded with dead and wounded, smoke in his eyes, loud oaths and curses in his ears, without counting the whistling of the balls, which I have been told produces a very droll effect when not accustomed to it, he stopped short, and looked so stupefied Michou laughed at him. That old soldier had been present at the battle of Wagram, and, being very young at the time, was at first half crazy with fear, which did not prevent him from showing great bravery when he recovered his senses. He therefore understood from experience precisely how Jeannet felt, and, giving him a hard blow on his shoulder, shook the young fellow's gun, which he was carelessly pointing at random.

“Are you going to let yourself be killed like a chicken?” he cried to him, swearing tremendously; “be quick, my boy; you can sleep to-morrow.”

Jean-Louis jumped; he drew himself up to his full height, and his handsome face reddened with shame, although he had done nothing dishonorable.

“Jacques,” said he, “I am afraid I am a coward.”

“Big mule!” gaily cried the game-keeper; “on the contrary, by-and-by you are going to see how we will amuse ourselves.”

They were at the time before a barricade, which was most obstinately defended. The conversation could not last long, but Jacques Michou did not lose sight of the boy. He saw that he soon recovered himself, and kept out of the way of the balls as well as he could—something which required as much skill as coolness—and handled his gun with as firm a hand as though he were hunting.

Fighting went on there for a good hour. The soldiers began to be furious, and, notwithstanding the number of killed on both sides, no advantage was gained. Cannon were brought up; at the first fire, a large breach was effected, and it was seen that the insurgents were reduced to a small number, who attempted to escape.

At that sight, the soldiers and volunteers could not be restrained.

“No prisoners!” cried a hundred voices, hoarse with rage.

That meant death to every one. Our officers were no longer masters; the tide, once let loose, soon overflowed, and a horrible mixture of shots, cries, and oaths, frightful to hear, pierced the air.

It is not easy to make you understand the rapidity with which old Michou threw himself before Jeannet to preserve his life. It was like a flash of lightning, but that flash sufficed; he had time to fire before the rioter, who rolled lifeless on the heaped-up pavement.

All was ended. Five minutes afterwards, at least in that corner, it only remained to remove the dead, and carry the wounded into the neighboring houses, where the women were ready to dress the wounds. There was time to breathe.

Alas! the poor, blinded people paid dearly in that quarter for their folly and madness. All the unfortunate wretches who had raised that barricade were dead or dying.

Jacques looked around for his master and his friend. M. le Marquis, with his arm all bleeding, was seated leaning against a post, very weak and faint from his wound; but his eyes sparkled, and a smile was upon his lips. The game-keeper rushed to him.

“It is nothing, old fellow,” said our master, “only a scratch on the wrist; lend me your handkerchief.”

By the mercy of God, it was really not much; and our dear lord quietly wrapped up his hand, while he asked about Jeannet.

“Heaven has worked miracles for that child,” said Michou proudly. “Ah! he is a brave boy, I tell you. He fought both like a fox and a lion!”

“I wish to see him,” said M. le Marquis. “Go bring him to me.”

Jacques willingly obeyed. It was some time before he found his pupil—for such he could be called. He was in the midst of a crowd that surrounded him and loaded him with congratulations and compliments on his bravery. His conduct had been noted, and the commanding officer was then asking him his name and residence, that he might inscribe them in his report. Jeannet, who shrank from observation, looked like a criminal before his judges. Michou, seeing him so timid and confused, told him he was a fool, and came very near being angry himself.

“Just see how frightened you are now!” said he to him, in such a cross tone the officer smiled. “Excuse him, colonel, he always looks sheepish when before people he don't know. His name is Jean-Louis Ragaud, and he comes from the commune of Val-Saint-sur-Range, near Issoudun.”

“All right,” said the officer; “that is enough, my brave fellow. Jean Ragaud, Gen. Cavaignac will hear of you, ... and, if it depends on me, you will hear from him.”

Jeannet bowed as awkwardly as possible, which made the game-keeper grumble again.

“Again I beg of you,” said he, “to keep that bewildered stare. You look like the head of S. John the Baptist, cut off and laid on a dish, that is painted in our church. I suppose it is because you are so unhappy! The general will no doubt send after you to have you hanged—unless he sends you the Cross of the Legion of Honor....”

“The cross!” cried Jeannet, seizing the game-keeper by the arm.

“Yes indeed, idiot! I know how soldiers talk; would the colonel have said as much unless he was sure of the fact?”

“The cross!” repeated Jean-Louis, with tears in his eyes. “O Jacques Michou! if it were true!”

“That would make you bold, eh? And it would be a fine present to take back to Muiceron.”

“Hush!” said Jeannet: “the bare thought makes me crazy.”

“I hope not,” replied Michou; “but I would be half wild myself. Come, now, let us be off; we have earned our dinner. M. le Marquis is asking for you.”

“Wait a moment, good, kind Jacques,” said Jean-Louis. “I have not yet thanked you; and yet I know you saved my life.”

“What nonsense!” said Michou, who in his turn looked embarrassed. “In such a battle, do you think a fellow looks after any one's skin but his own?”

“Oh! I saw you,” replied Jeannet. “You sprang before me, or I would have been killed.”

“Listen,” said Michou in a solemn tone, “before God, who hears me, and conducts all by his divine hand, it was not so much your life that I wished to save, ... it was another's that I wished to take.”

“How?”

“We should not love revenge,” replied the game-keeper; “but the temptation was too strong; faith! I am ready to confess it, if it was a sin—of which I am not sure. Jeannet, he who aimed at you from the barricade—didn't you recognize him?”

“No,” said Jeannet, “I saw no one.”

“It was Isidore Perdreau. God have mercy on his soul!” said the game-keeper, blessing himself. “My poor Barbette in heaven will ask for my pardon....”

To Be Continued.