or neglected had she not been there.  The little Chevalier tried hard to assist her, but the pale sad face of Agatha, and the silent tears which from time to time moistened the cheeks of the Marquis, and told how acute were the sufferings which he tried in vain to hide, were too much for the poor boy; he soon betook himself alone into the cherry grove, where he wandered about unseen, and if the truth must be told, more than once threw himself on the ground, and wept bitterly and aloud.

They sat down to dinner about three o’clock; but their dinner was, if possible, a worse affair than their breakfast.  They were not only sad, but worn out and jaded with sorrow.  The very servants, as they moved the dishes, sobbed aloud; and at last, Momont, who had vainly attempted to carry himself with propriety before the others, utterly gave way, and throwing himself on to a chair in the salon, declared that nothing but violence should separate him from his master.

“It is five-and-fifty years,” said he, sobbing, “since I first waited on Monseigneur.  We were boys then, and now we are old men together It is not natural that we should part.  Where he goes, I will go.  I will cling to his carriage, unless they cut me down with swords.”

No one could rebuke the old man—­certainly not the master whom he loved so well; and though they knew that it would be impossible to provide for him, none of them at the moment had the heart to tell him so.

By degrees the daylight faded away, and for the last time, they watched the sun sink down among the cherry trees of Durbelliere, and the Marquis, seated by the window, gazed into the West till not a streak of light was any longer visible; then he felt that the sun of this world had set for him for good and all.  Even though he might live out a few more weary years, even though the cause to which he was attached should be victorious, yet he knew that Durbelliere would be destroyed, and it never could be anything to him how the sun set or rose in any other place.  His warm heart yearned towards his house; the very chair on which he sat, the stool on which rested his crippled legs, were objects of an affection which he had before felt, but never till now acknowledged.  Every object on which his eye rested gave him a new pang; every article within his reach was a dear friend, whom he had long loved, and was now to leave for ever.

Still he did not utter one word of complaint; he did not once murmur at his fate; he never reminded his son that he had, by his impetuosity, hurried on his old father to destruction.  He never repined at the sacrifice he had made—­I will not say for his King, for King at present he had none; the throne had been laid low, and the precious blood of him who should have filled it had been shed.  No; his sacrifices had been to an abstract feeling of loyalty, which made fealty to the Crown, whether worn or in abeyance, only second in his bosom to obedience to his God.