_" and he vanished.

Antoine uttered a shriek of joy. He wept, he laughed, he cut capers, and
flinging himself at Monsieur the Viscount's feet, he kissed them
rapturously. When he raised his eyes to Monsieur the Viscount's face,
his transports moderated. The last shock had been too much, he seemed
almost in a stupor. Antoine got him on the pallet, dragged the blanket
over him, broke the bread into the milk, and played the nurse once more.

On that day thousands of prisoners in the city of Paris alone awoke from
the shadow of death to the hope of life. The Reign of Terror was ended!

CHAPTER III.

It was a year of grace early in the present century.

We are again in the beautiful country of beautiful France. It is the
chateau once more. It is the same, but changed. The unapproachable
elegance, the inviolable security, have witnessed invasion. The right
wing of the chateau is in ruins, with traces of fire upon the blackened
walls; while here and there, a broken statue or a roofless temple, are
sad memorials of the Revolution. Within the restored part of the
chateau, however, all looks well. Monsieur the Viscount has been
fortunate, and if not so rich a man as his father, has yet regained
enough of his property to live with comfort, and, as he thinks, luxury.
The long rooms are little less elegant than in former days, and Madame
the present Viscountess's boudoir is a model of taste. Not far from it
is another room, to which it forms a singular contrast. This room
belongs to Monsieur the Viscount. It is small, with one window. The
floor and walls are bare, and it contains no furniture; but on the floor
is a worn-out pallet, by which lies a stone, and on that a broken
pitcher, and in a little frame against the wall is preserved a crumpled
bit of paper like the fly-leaf of some little book, on which is a
half-effaced inscription, which can be deciphered by Monsieur the
Viscount if by no one else. Above the window is written in large
letters, a date and the word REMEMBER. Monsieur the Viscount is not
likely to forget, but he is afraid of himself and of prosperity lest it
should spoil him.

It is evening, and Monsieur the Viscount is strolling along the terrace
with Madame on his arm. He has only one to offer her, for where the
other should be an empty sleeve is pinned to his breast, on which a bit
of ribbon is stirred by the breeze. Monsieur the Viscount has not been
idle since we saw him last; the faith that tau