“Souvenez-vous du Sauveur!  Souvenez-vous du Sauveur!”

(Remember the Saviour!)

In that remembrance he fell asleep.

Monsieur the Viscount’s sleep for some hours was without a dream.  Then it began to be disturbed by that uneasy consciousness of sleeping too long, which enables some people to awake at whatever hour they have resolved upon.  At last it became intolerable, and wearied as he was, he awoke.  It was broad daylight, and Antoine was snoring beside him.  Surely the cart would come soon, the executions were generally at an early hour.  But time went on, and no one came, and Antoine awoke.  The hours of suspense passed heavily, but at last there were steps and a key rattled into the lock.  The door opened, and the gaoler appeared with a jug of milk and a loaf.  With a strange smile he set them down.

“A good appetite to you, citizens.”

Antoine flew on him.  “Comrade! we used to be friends.  Tell me, what is it?  Is the execution deferred?”

“The execution has taken place at last,” said the other, significantly; “Robespierre is dead!” 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 to 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.