er words had
provoked him into unpardonable vehemence of language.

He hardly dared say it, but she had actually made a French flag, with
the intention of displaying it as soon as the enemy should arrive,--an
event of which she had felt perfectly assured. He never thought that
his wife had political opinions of any kind, because mere abuse of
Prussia does not argue the presence of political convictions. He had
carefully avoided affronting her feelings as a Czech; for he well knew
how the Czechs resent the fact of their being dependent on German
culture. But he could never have believed that her hatred of Germany
could have carried her so far as to allow her to connive at the
correspondence with France, which was carried on under cover of her
address, and with complete ignorance, on her part, of its origin.

The village clergyman had been to see her, and must have given her
strange information, for she now insisted on leaving for Switzerland at
once.

"God be praised!" said I, "let her go." I told him that her intended
departure was already the topic of common talk.

The Baron, however, feared that her course might be fraught with evil
consequences to the whole neighborhood, as he thought that her fleeing
to Switzerland might awaken a panic.

To me, it seemed as if he were trying to justify his course in allowing
her to leave. I assured him that no one doubted his patriotism, and he
begged me not to divulge what he had told me.

I succeeded in reassuring him, and he seemed to recover from his
depression. He felt that I fully sympathized with him. And can anything
be sadder than to find that one's love of country is opposed and
ridiculed in his own home? The antagonism which had so long been veiled
under courteous forms, now broke forth with redoubled venom and fury.

"Your hearty sympathy does me good," said the Baron; "and I feel like a
changed being since I have unbosomed myself to you--just as if I had
withdrawn my hand from a bleeding wound, which can now flow freely."

I understood him. Grief which has been long repressed, and at last
finds vent in words, renews itself while the sufferer speaks of it.

When I mentioned this to him, he took my hand and held it in his for a
long while.

"But we must not think of our own little lives," he added; "great
questions now claim us. If France should fail of success, she is still
France; but if we meet with defeat, we shall become the prey of
others."

I learned