help me, she came and gave me
medicines and food--in short, I owe my life to her. 'Tis ten years ago,
but I remember it well, and now it is our turn to rule, and she shall be
paid as she deserves. Not a stone of the Chateau de Fleury shall be
touched!"

With loud acclamations the mob joined in the generous enthusiasm of the
moment and followed their leader peaceably out of the village. All this
passed with such rapidity as scarcely to leave the impression of reality
upon the mind. As soon as the sun rose in the morning Victoire looked
out for the turrets of the Chateau de Fleury, and she saw that they were
safe--safe in the midst of the surrounding devastation. Nothing remained
of the superb palace of Chantilly but the white arches of its foundation.

CHAPTER XIII

"When thy last breath, ere Nature sank to rest
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed;
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave--
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?
The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth,
Th' inspiring voice of innocence and truth!"--ROGERS.

The good Sister Frances, though she had scarcely recovered from the shock
of the preceding night, accompanied Victoire to the Chateau de Fleury.
The gates were opened for them by the old steward and his son Basile, who
welcomed them with all the eagerness with which people welcome friends in
time of adversity. The old man showed them the place; and through every
apartment of the castle went on talking of former times, and with
narrative fondness told anecdotes of his dear master and mistress. Here
his lady used to sit and read--here was the table at which she wrote--this
was the sofa on which she and the ladies sat the very last day she was at
the castle, at the open windows of the hall, whilst all the tenants and
people of the village were dancing on the green.

"Ay, those were happy times," said the old man; "but they will never
return."

"Never! Oh do not say so," cried Victoire.

"Never during my life, at least," said the nun in a low voice, and with a
look of resignation.

Basile, as he wiped the tears from his eyes, happened to strike his arm
against the chord of Madame de Fleury's harp, and the sound echoed
through the room.

"Before this year is at an end," cried Victoire, "perhaps that harp will
be struck again in this Chateau by Madame