tranquil. Seen from that point, the vale was like
a street of verdure. Mademoiselle de Verneuil re-entered the town by the
Porte Saint-Leonard. The inhabitants, still uneasy about the fighting,
which, judging by the distant firing, was still going on, were waiting
the return of the National Guard, to judge of their losses. Seeing the
girl in her strange costume, her hair dishevelled, a gun in her hand,
her shawl and gown whitened against the walls, soiled with mud and wet
with dew, the curiosity of the people was keenly excited,--all the more
because the power, beauty, and singularity of this young Parisian had
been the subject of much discussion.

Francine, full of dreadful fears, had waited for her mistress throughout
the night, and when she saw her she began to speak; but Marie, with a
kindly gesture, silenced her.

"I am not dead, my child," she said. "Ah!" she added, after a pause, "I
wanted emotions when I left Paris, and I have had them!"

Francine asked if she should get her some food, observing that she must
be in great need of it.

"No, no; a bath, a bath!" cried Mademoiselle de Verneuil. "I must dress
at once."

Francine was not a little surprised when her mistress required her to
unpack the most elegant of the dresses she had brought with her. Having
bathed and breakfasted, Marie made her toilet with all the minute care
which a woman gives to that important act when she expects to meet the
eyes of her lover in a ball-room. Francine could not explain to herself
the mocking gaiety of her mistress. It was not the joy of love,--a
woman never mistakes that; it was rather an expression of concentrated
maliciousness, which to Francine's mind boded evil. Marie herself drew
the curtains of the window from which the glorious panorama could be
seen, then she moved the sofa to the chimney corner, turning it so that
the light would fall becomingly on her face; then she told Francine to
fetch flowers, that the room might have a festive air; and when they
came she herself directed their arrangement in a picturesque manner.
Giving a last glance of satisfaction at these various preparations she
sent Francine to the commandant with a request that he would bring her
prisoner to her; then she lay down luxuriously on a sofa, partly to
rest, and partly to throw herself into an attitude of graceful weakness,
the power of which is irresistible in certain women. A soft languor, the
seductive pose of her feet just seen below the