“It is our custom at home, Captain, to offer the bride a gift. Be so good as to give yours this little flower, which has blossomed in my domain. And now, good night. I have kept you from your loves long enough. May God remember your kindness toward me! Good-by. Best wishes! Send me some supper, for I’m hungry and need rest.” And they separated with friendly looks. Dinner was brought the young Vendean by a pretty Breton girl with white teeth, rosy lips and the pensive air which befitted a shy country maiden, who had already seen so many proscripts. She served him zealously, and gave him no peace if he did not eat of this or that dish, drink this or that wine. It was a magnificent repast. The dovecote grew fragrant. It was almost like the time when the winged occupants of the tower gathered crumbs from the feast. As the girl was pouring champagne, Baudelot said to her: “What is your name, my child?” “My name is Marie,” she answered. “The same as my cousin’s,” went on the young man; “and how old are you, Marie?” “Seventeen years,” said Marie. “The age of my cousin,” said Baudelot, and as he thought of his pretty cousin butchered by the executioner, his heart almost failed him. But he blushed to weep before this child in whose eyes tears were gathering, and as he could not speak, he held out his glass. But the glass was full, and in the last rays of the sun the champagne sparkled joyously, for wine sparkled and spring bloomed even during the Terror. Seeing that his glass was full, Baudelot said: “You have no glass, Marie?” “I am not thirsty,” said Marie. “Oh!” said Baudelot, “this bright wine does not like to be drunk by a man alone. It is convivial by nature, and rejoices to be among boon companions. It is the great support of the Fraternity of which you have heard so much, my poor Marie, and which men really comprehend so little. Be friendly; dip your lips in my glass, my pretty Breton, if you would have me drink champagne once more before I die,” and he lifted the glass to Marie’s lips. She held them out, but at the words, “to die,” her heart overflowed, and copious tears rolled into the joyous wine. “To your health, Marie!” said Baudelot, and drank both wine and tears. Just then they heard the horn, the hautboys, and the violins. “What’s that?” said the young man setting down his glass. “God bless me, it’s a ball!” “Alas!” said Marie, “alas! yes, it’s a ball. My young mistress did not want dancing, but her lover and her father insisted. She is very unhappy this evening.”