that those homes would soon be turned into heaps of ashes.  It was a bright warm autumn day this, the last which the Larochejaquelins were to pass together in the mansion in which they had all been born.  The men came over early, and breakfasted at the chateau, and both Henri and Arthur worked hard to relieve the sadness of the party with some sparks of their accustomed gaiety; the attempt, however, was futile; they each felt that their hours of gaiety were gone by, and before the meal was over, they had both resolved that any attempt at mirth that day, would be a stretch of hypocrisy beyond their power.

When breakfast was over, the Marquis begged that, for the last time, he might be wheeled round the garden-walks, which he loved so well, and accordingly he was put into his chair, and, accompanied by his children and friends, was dragged through every alley, and every little meandering path.  He would not spare himself a single turn—­he had a tear to give to every well-known tree, an adieu to make to every painted figure.  To de Lescure and the others, the comic attitudes of these uncouth ornaments was, at the present moment, any thing but interesting; but to the Marquis, each of them was an old and well-loved friend, whom even in his extremity he could hardly bring himself to desert.  On their return into the house from the garden, they began to employ themselves with arranging and packing the little articles which they intended to take with them.  They had all counted on having much to do during the short hours of this one last day; on being hurried and pressed, so as to be hardly able to get through their task; but instead of this their work was soon done, and the minutes hung heavy on their hands.  They would not talk of the things which were near their hearts, for they feared to add to each other’s misery; they strove therefore to talk on indifferent subjects, and soon broke down in every attempt they made at conversation.

Agatha never left her father’s side for a moment, and though she seldom spoke to him, she did a thousand little acts of sedulous attention, which showed him that she was near to him.  Her gentle touch was almost as precious to him as her voice.  De Lescure sat near his wife the whole day, speaking to her from time to time in a whisper, and feeling the weight upon his spirits so great that even with her he could hardly talk freely.  He was already without a roof which he could call his own, and he was aware his friends would soon be equally desolate; such hitherto had been the result of their gallant enterprise.

Henri had much to say—­much that he had made up his mind to say to Marie before he left Durbelliere, but he put off the moment of saying it from hour to hour, and it was not till near midnight that it was said.  Marie herself, bore herself more manfully, if I may say so, than any of them; she really employed herself, and thought of a thousand things conducive to their future comfort, which would have been forgotten