hoarse cries that bespoke a people's vengeance.
And now I found myself in the little silent street which once had been
my home. I stood opposite the house where we used to live, afraid to
enter it lest I might compromise the safety of her I wished to save,
and yet longing once more to see the little chamber where we once sat
together--the chimney-corner where, in the dark nights of winter, I
nestled, with my hymn-book, and tried to learn the rhymes that every
plash of the falling hail against the windows routed--to lie down once
more in the little bed, where so often I had passed whole nights of
happy imaginings--bright thoughts of a peaceful future that were never
to be realised!

Half choking with my emotion, I passed on, and soon saw the green
fields, and the windmill-covered hill of Montmartre rising above the
embankment of the Boulevards--and now the ivy-clothed wall of the
garden, within which stood the chapel of St. Blois. The gate lay ajar as
of old, and, pushing it open, I entered. Everything was exactly as I had
left it--the same desolation and desertion everywhere--so much so, that
I almost fancied no human foot had crossed its dreary precincts since
last I was there. On drawing nigh to the chapel, I found the door fast
barred and barricaded as before; but a window lay open, and on examining
it closer I discovered the marks of a recent foot-track on the ground
and the window-sill. Could the Pere Michel have been there? was the
question that at once occurred to my mind. Had the poor priest come
to take a last look and a farewell of a spot so dear to him? It could
scarcely have been any other. There was nothing to tempt cupidity in
that humble little church; an image of the 'Virgin and Child' in wax
was the only ornament of the altar. No, no; pillage had never been the
motive of him who entered here.

Thus reasoning, I climbed up to the window, and entered the chapel. As
my footsteps echoed through the silent building, I felt that sense of
awe and reverence so inseparably connected with a place of worship,
and which is ever more impressive still as we stand in it alone. The
present, however, was less before me than the past, of which everything
reminded me. There was the seat the marquise used to sit in--there the
footstool I had so often placed at her feet. How different was the last
service I had rendered her! There the pillar, beside which I have
stood spell-bound, gazing at that fair face, whose beauty ar