owed thus far, has not forgotten a certain
little village among the Vosges mountains, where in January, 1814, brave
peasants fought and died in the defence of their country.

When Simon left Leigoutte with Sergeant Michel, he had no idea that the
fury of the invaders would lead them to commit the crime of killing
women and children, and to burn their homes. The Cossacks and the
emigres avenged themselves on French flesh and blood, and French homes
and firesides.

While the Russians burned the cottage where Francoise and the children
had taken shelter, Talizac, in order to ensure his possession of the
title and Fongereues estates, set fire to the inn which was Simon's
home. The emigres took fiendish delight in destroying the school-room.
Was it not there that the Republicans talked of duty and their country
to the children? And when this band of royal thieves had passed,
desolation settled down upon the valley.

The king was proclaimed at the Tuileries, and lying on his bed
embroidered with purple _fleur de lis_, never condescended to think of
the villages in the East that had welcomed the invaders with powder and
shot.

By degrees Leigoutte, like its neighbors, began to hold up its head
once more, and the few survivors agreed to take care of the women and
children who had been left without protectors. The oldest among them
remembered Simon's teachings, and repeated them to their children.

One day they experienced a great surprise. It became known that a
stranger had purchased the land on which had formerly stood the inn and
the school of Simon Fougere. Every one wondered what the old man, who
seemed to be an intendant, meant to do with this place, about which hung
so many sad legends. Then came an architect, who employed the workmen in
the village. They were paid well and promptly. The older inhabitants
were consulted as to the plan of the old inn and the school.

When wonder had passed, the villagers were amazed to find the inn had
been built exactly like the old one that had been burned by the emigres.
Yes, there was the large, well-lighted room where Francoise, with her
little girl in her arms, had cordially welcomed the travelers, while
little Jacques flew about with bright cheeks and brighter eyes. The
sign, too, was just the same as the old one. The only difference was
that the tri-colored flag did not wave in the morning breeze. The new
proprietor was named Pierre Labarre. Who was he? No one knew. He had a