With loud acclamations the mob joined in the generous enthusiasm of the moment and followed their leader peaceably out of the village.  All this passed with such rapidity as scarcely to leave the impression of reality upon the mind.  As soon as the sun rose in the morning Victoire looked out for the turrets of the Chateau de Fleury, and she saw that they were safe—­safe in the midst of the surrounding devastation.  Nothing remained of the superb palace of Chantilly but the white arches of its foundation.

CHAPTER XIII

   “When thy last breath, ere Nature sank to rest
   Thy meek submission to thy God expressed;
   When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
   A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;
   What to thy soul its glad assurance gave—­
   Its hope in death, its triumph o’er the grave? 
   The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth,
   Th’ inspiring voice of innocence and truth!”—­ROGERS.

The good Sister Frances, though she had scarcely recovered from the shock of the preceding night, accompanied Victoire to the Chateau de Fleury.  The gates were opened for them by the old steward and his son Basile, who welcomed them with all the eagerness with which people welcome friends in time of adversity.  The old man showed them the place; and through every apartment of the castle went on talking of former times, and with narrative fondness told anecdotes of his dear master and mistress.  Here his lady used to sit and read—­here was the table at which she wrote—­this was the sofa on which she and the ladies sat the very last day she was at the castle, at the open windows of the hall, whilst all the tenants and people of the village were dancing on the green.

“Ay, those were happy times,” said the old man; “but they will never return.”

“Never!  Oh do not say so,” cried Victoire.

“Never during my life, at least,” said the nun in a low voice, and with a look of resignation.

Basile, as he wiped the tears from his eyes, happened to strike his arm against the chord of Madame de Fleury’s harp, and the sound echoed through the room.

“Before this year is at an end,” cried Victoire, “perhaps that harp will be struck again in this Chateau by Madame de Fleury herself.  Last night we could hardly have hoped to see these walls standing this morning, and yet it is safe—­not a stone touched!  Oh, we shall all live, I hope, to see better times!”

Sister Frances smiled, for she would not depress Victoire’s enthusiastic hope:  to please her, the good nun added, that she felt better this morning than she had felt for months, and Victoire was happier than she had been since Madame de Fleury left France.  But, alas! it was only a transient gleam.  Sister Frances relapsed and declined so rapidly, that even Victoire, whose mind was almost always disposed to hope, despaired of her recovery.  With placid