sions; and yet, as he closed the door
behind him, and drew me towards him to kiss my cheek, the tears
glistened in his eyes with gratitude as he said--

'Now, my dear Maurice, you are at home.'

'How do you know that I am called Maurice?' said I, in astonishment.

'Because I was an old friend of your poor father, my child; we came from
the same country--we held the same faith, had the same hopes, and may
one day yet, perhaps, have the same fate.'

He told me that the closest friendship had bound them together for years
past, and in proof of it showed me a variety of papers which my father
had intrusted to his keeping, well aware, as it would seem, of the
insecurity of his own life.

'He charged me to take you home with me, Maurice, should the day come
when this might come to pass. You will now live with me, and I will be
your father, so far, at least, as humble means will suffer me.'

I was too young to know how deep my debt of gratitude ought to be. I had
not tasted the sorrows of utter desertion; nor did I know from what a
hurricane of blood and anarchy Fortune had rescued me; still I accepted
the pere's benevolent offer with a thankful heart, and turned to him at
once as to all that was left to me in the world.

All this time, it may be wondered how I neither spoke nor thought of
my mother, if she were indeed such; but for several weeks before my
father's death I had never seen her, nor did he ever once allude to her.
The reserve thus imposed upon me remained still, and I felt as though
it would have been like a treachery to his memory were I now to speak of
her whom, in his lifetime, I had not dared to mention.

The pere lost no time in diverting my mind from the dreadful events I
had so lately witnessed. The next morning, soon after daybreak, I was
summoned to attend him to the little church of St. Blois, where he
said mass. It was a very humble little edifice, which once had been
the private chapel of a chateau, and stood in a weed-grown, neglected
garden, where broken statues and smashed fountains bore evidence of
the visits of the destroyer. A rude effigy of St. Blois, upon whom some
profane hand had stuck a Phrygian cap of liberty, and which none were
bold enough to displace, stood over the doorway; except this, not a
vestige of ornament or decoration existed. The altar, covered with
a white cloth, displayed none of the accustomed emblems; and a rude
crucifix of oak was the only symbol of the faith rema