priest, firmly, "is it necessary that you should
understand it, particularly if you do not care to inquire. It is
enough for you and me if we remember Who made them, some six thousand
years before either of us was born."

With which Monsieur the Preceptor (who had all this time kept his
place in the little book with his big thumb) returned to the terrace,
and resumed his devotions at the point where they had been interrupted
which exercise he continued till he was joined by the Cure of the
village, and the two priests relaxed in the political and religious
gossip of the day.

Monsieur the Viscount rejoined his young guests, and they fed the gold
fish and the swans, and played _Colin Maillard_ in the shady walks,
and made a beautiful bouquet for Madame, and then fled indoors at the
first approach of evening chill, and found that the Viscountess had
prepared a feast of fruit and flowers for them in the great hall.
Here, at the head of the table, with Madame at his right hand, his
guests around, and the liveried lacqueys waiting his commands,
Monsieur the Viscount forgot that anything had ever been made which
could mar beauty and enjoyment; while the two priests outside stalked
up and down under the falling twilight, and talked ugly talk of crime
and poverty that were _somewhere_ now, and of troubles to come
hereafter.

And so night fell over the beautiful sky, the beautiful chateau, and
the beautiful gardens; and upon the secure slumbers of beautiful
Madame and her beautiful son, and beautiful, beautiful France.

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

It was the year of grace 1792, thirteen years after the events related
in the last chapter. It was the 2nd of September, and Sunday, a day of
rest and peace in all Christian countries, and even more in gay,
beautiful France--a day of festivity and merriment. This Sunday,
however, seemed rather an exception to the general rule. There were no
gay groups or bannered processions; the typical incense and the public
devotion of which it is the symbol were alike wanting; the streets in
some places seemed deserted, and in others there was an ominous crowd,
and the dreary silence was now and then broken by a distant sound of
yells and cries, that struck terror into the hearts of the Parisians.

It was a deserted bye-street, overlooked by some shut-up warehouses,
and from the cellar of one of these a young man crept up on to the
pathway. His dress had