dear for the anxiety he
has given us," said the mother to the son, in a low voice, as Hulot
re-entered the room.

The brave old officer showed on his worried face the struggle that went
on in his mind betwixt a stern sense of duty and the natural kindness of
his heart. He kept his gruff air, partly, perhaps, because he fancied
he had deceived himself, but he took the glass of Bordeaux, and said:
"Excuse me, comrade, but your Polytechnique does send such young
officers--"

"The Chouans have younger ones," said the youth, laughing.

"For whom did you take my son?" asked Madame du Gua.

"For the Gars, the leader sent to the Chouans and the Vendeans by the
British cabinet; his real name is Marquis de Montauran."

The commandant watched the faces of the suspected pair, who looked at
each other with a puzzled expression that seemed to say: "Do you know
that name?" "No, do you?" "What is he talking about?" "He's dreaming."

The sudden change in the manner of Marie de Verneuil, and her torpor as
she heard the name of the royalist general was observed by no one but
Francine, the only person to whom the least shade on that young face
was visible. Completely routed, the commandant picked up the bits of his
broken sword, looked at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whose ardent beauty
was beginning to find its way to his heart, and said: "As for you,
mademoiselle, I take nothing back, and to-morrow these fragments of my
sword will reach Bonaparte, unless--"

"Pooh! what do I care for Bonaparte, or your republic, or the king,
or the Gars?" she cried, scarcely repressing an explosion of ill-bred
temper.

A mysterious emotion, the passion of which gave to her face a dazzling
color, showed that the whole world was nothing to the girl the moment
that one individual was all in all to her. But she suddenly subdued
herself into forced calmness, observing, like a trained actor, that the
spectators were watching her. The commandant rose hastily and went out.
Anxious and agitated, Mademoiselle de Verneuil followed him, stopped him
in the corridor, and said, in an almost solemn tone: "Have you any good
reason to suspect that young man of being the Gars?"

"God's thunder! mademoiselle, that fellow who rode here with you came
back to warn me that the travellers in the mail-coach had all been
murdered by the Chouans; I knew that, but what I didn't know was the
name of the murdered persons,--it was Gua de Saint-Cyr!"

"Oh! if Corentin is at the