“Oh! how cruel, how hard I,” cried the girl, taking the little animal in her hands. “Dead, poor little marmousette—is it dead?” “Yes, it is dead; a woman killed it,” said the old man, with a thrill of the old anger in his voice. “A woman? No, no! What woman?” “One of those who call themselves women of France. They have hunted me down like wolves, hoping to make my sorrows the instruments of their vengeance.” “Oh! I understand,” said the girl, mournfully. “It was one of those women who pointed poor Doudel out, as he stood guard upon the tower, when the Bastille was assaulted. The mob had seized upon me, but I would not cry out, from fear that he would come down to rescue me, and thus expose himself; but she saw the agony in his face, and pointed the carbine upon him. I saw it, and flung up my arms to warn him; but at that very moment he fell, with a crash, to the pavement. Oh it was fearful!” These words left Marguerite’s lips with a cry of despair that found a weird echo in the ruins. Then she fell into shuddering sobs that died out at last, and only murmured, “Never will the face of that woman leave my memory. It was that of a beautiful fiend.” “Alas!” said the old man. “How much innocent blood was shed that I and a few others might be set free.” “Poor Doudel was not to blame. He put no man in prison; but only did a guard’s duty. Why did the mob murder him?” “It was for me that your friend lost his life.” “Then let us thank our blessed Lady that he did not die in vain,” answered the gentle girl. The old man did not answer, his head was bowed down, his hands moved restlessly. No subject could take him long from a remembrance of the desolation of his loss. All at once the young girl uttered a little cry. “Oh, my father! have some hope.” The old man started. “Hope! hope! What for?” “It is warm! Yes, yes! It moves!” “What, what? Ah! it would be so cruel to deceive me!” “Look, look! its pretty eyes are open.” “Oh, my God! is this true?” “It is trying to stand up in my palm. Poor little thing, how it quivers.” “Let me look—let me touch it!” cried the old man, trembling with eagerness. “My pet! my life! my little darling!” The old man’s voice broke into tears. He held out his hands, but they shook so that the mouse fell back when it attempted to climb them. Marguerite caressed it against her cheek; then laid it softly into the outstretched palm of the old prisoner, answering back his smile when he hid the creature under his beard. “There, you see our Lady has not altogether forsaken us,” said the girl, drawing a basket from under her shawl. “I was sure that you would be here, and I brought something for both you and marmousette to eat. Poor, little thing—does it tremble yet?” “Yes; but I think it is not so badly hurt.”