“Poor Marie, from my heart I pity her; in any other times than these, how I would have gloried to have given Henri my sister; but now, these are no times to marry, or to give in marriage.  Henri has stern, hard work to do, and he is bent on doing it; ay, and he will do it.  No one will carry the standard of his King further into the ranks of the republicans than Henri Larochejaquelin.”

“I know one, Charles, who will, at any rate, be beside him.”

“But he is so full of glorious confidence—­so certain of success.  He will go to battle with the assured hope of victory.  I shall fight expecting nothing but defeat.”

“You are melancholy, tonight, my love:  something ails you beyond your dread of the coming struggle.”

“Can I be other than melancholy?  I have no hope.”

“No hope, Charles.  Oh! do not say you have no hope.”

“None in this world, Victorine.  The Indian widow, when she throws herself on the burning pile, with a noble courage does what she has been taught to look upon as a sacred duty, but she cannot but dread the fire which is to consume her.”

“You would not liken yourself to her?”

“Through the mercy of our blessed Saviour I am not so mistaken in my creed; but I am hardly less calamitous in my fate:  but it is not the prospect of my own sufferings which disturb me; I at any rate may be assured of an honourable, even an enviable death.  It is my anxiety for you—­for our little one—­and for dear Marie, which makes my spirit sad.”

“God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb,” said Madame de Lescure.  “Our trials will not be harder than we can bear.”

“God bless you for those words, dearest:  there is comfort in them—­real, true comfort.  But remember them yourself Victorine; remember them when you will most want them.  When great sorrow comes home to your bosom, as it will do; when affliction is heavy on you, when worldly comforts are leaving you, when enemies are around you, when the voices of cruel men are in your ears, and their cruel deeds before your eyes, then remember, my love, that God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb.”

“I will, my own Charles, I will,” said she, now kneeling at his feet, and burying her face in her hands upon his knees; “if I am called upon to bear these miseries, I will remember it.”

“And look up, Victorine; look up, dearest.  I would have you prepared for the worst.  Listen to me now calmly, love, and then I need not harrow you with these thoughts again.  It may be God’s pleasure that I should outlive this war; but as, with His will, I am determined that I will never lay down my sword till the soldiers of the Republic are driven from the province, it is most improbable that I should do so.  You must teach yourself, Victorine, to look for my death, as an event certain to occur, which any day may bring forth; and when the heavy news is brought to you, bear it as a Christian woman should