On the next morning, Madame de Lescure spoke to her sister-in-law on the same subject.  She could not bring herself to look on things around her quite so darkly as her husband did.  She could not think that there was no longer any hope in their once happy country for the young and the generous, the beautiful and the brave; of herself and her own lot, her thoughts were sombre enough.  De Lescure had imbued her with that presentiment, which he himself felt so strongly, that he should perish in the conflict in which he was about to engage; but all would not surely be doomed to share her cup of sorrow.  She loved Marie dearly, and she loved Henri, not only from what her husband so often said of him, but from what she knew of him herself; and she longed in her woman’s heart that they should be happy together.

It was still March, but it was on a bright warm spring morning, that Madame de Lescure was walking with her sister-in-law in the gardens at Clisson.  Marie was talking of her brother—­of the part he was to take in the war—­of the gallant Cathelineau, and of the events which were so quickly coming on them; but Madame de Lescure by degrees weaned her from the subject and brought her to that on which she wished to speak.

“M.  Larochejaquelin will be much here as long as this fighting lasts and M. Denot:  we shall have plenty of brave knights coming to and fro to lay their trophies at your feet.”

“Poor M. Denot—­his trophies if he gets any will be taken to Durbelliere; and I fear me, when he offers them, they will not be welcomed.  Agatha loves him not; she thinks he shares his adoration too equally between her and his looking-glass.”

“I do not wonder at it; no one can deny that M. Denot is attractive, but he attracts without retaining; were I ever so much in want of lovers, I could not endure M. Denot’s attentions for more than one evening at the utmost; but our other knight—­our other preux chevalier, sans peur et sans reproche—­at whose feet will he lay his trophies, Marie? who is to wreath a crown of bay leaves for his brow?”

“His countrywomen should all unite to do it, Victorine—­for he is going out to battle for them all—­every village girl, whose lover is still left to walk with her on the Sabbath evening—­every young wife, who can still lay her baby in her husband’s arms—­every mother, who still rejoices in the smile of her stalwart son; they should all unite to wreath a crown for the brow of Henri Larochejaquelin.”

“And so they shall, Marie; but there will be others also, whose valour will claim a token of admiration from the gratitude of their countrywomen; we will all do this for Henri and our other brave defenders; but if I know his character, the gratitude of many will not make him happy without the favour of one, and she will be the lady of his love; the remembrance of whose smiles will bear him scatheless through the din of the battle.”

“I should be vain, Victorine, if I pretended to misunderstand your questions,” said Marie; “but why you should mix my name with that of M. Larochejaquelin, without vanity I do not know.”