“But uncle,” said I, “although it would be a great treat to me to go to Paris and see the fête, still, if you wish it, I will not go.” “No, my boy, go; and heaven grant that I may live to see your return, and that we may meet again in this world.” I embraced him as I wept, for I loved him dearly. Had he not fed and clothed me and brought me up, and watched the infant become, under his roof a man? “Bring my arm-chair to the door,” said he; “I do not wish to lose the last glimpse of the setting sun.” I obeyed. Leaning on my shoulder he reached the door, and sitting down in the chair, took my hand, and kissed me, saying “Go!” I departed, returning in time to see this good old servitor of royalty die. With kingcraft he suffered, and with its death he died. When I lost sight of him, it seemed as if I had left him for ever, and I felt half inclined to return at once, never to leave him; but the temptation of seeing Paris was too much for me, and in another moment we were in sight of the houses of Islettes. A surprise awaited me there. The inhabitants, not wishing to be separated from their Curé, had put him into a little carriage drawn by a horse, and the good priest, his eyes overflowing with tears, was bidding farewell to Mademoiselle Marguerite, who wept on the steps in front of the door of the Presbytery. In those days, a journey of forty leagues was no small matter, and the poor girl believed that the good Abbé Fortin had departed for ever. We continued our route, the drums beating, and the carriage rolling ahead of us. Some of our party pressed on in front, to form an escort of honor for the worthy priest. We found M. Drouet awaiting us at the head of the deputation, on the Place of St. Menehould. Amongst the deputation, was an old soldier of the Seven Years War, who had served under Marshal Saxe, and who was present at the battle of Fontenoy; and a sailor, who was in active service at the time of the birth of the Bailli de Suffren. Both, living ruins of an ancient regime, wished to witness the dawn of a new era. M. Drouet had placed a carriage at their service, but they would not use it. It therefore proceeded empty in the midst of the _cortêge_, in the front rank of which the two veterans marched with heads erect—a benediction, as it were, bestowed by the dead era on the age which was just about to dawn. All the high roads of France were filled with processions like ours, all hastening to one great focus—Paris. Never since the Crusade had so great a number, of their own will, bent their steps in one direction. All along the road, deputations came to greet the travellers. They offered hospitality to the old men and priests. It was impossible to provide for all, so the main body bivouacked in the open air. Great fires were lighted, at which every one prepared his simple meal. There was no lack of wine in a country which particularly cultivated grapes.