The Comte de Fontaine took Montauran’s hand and pressed it, saying: “I was left for dead at Quatre-Chemins, therefore you need never doubt me. But believe in my experience--times have changed.” “Yes,” said La Billardiere, who now joined them. “You are young, marquis. Listen to me; your property has not yet been sold--” “Ah!” cried Montauran, “can you conceive of devotion without sacrifice?” “Do you really know the king?” “I do.” “Then I admire your loyalty.” “The king,” replied the young chieftain, “is the priest; I am fighting not for the man, but for the faith.” They parted,--the Vendean leader convinced of the necessity of yielding to circumstances and keeping his beliefs in the depths of his heart; La Billardiere to return to his negotiations in England; and Montauran to fight savagely and compel the Vendeans, by the victories he expected to win, to co-operate in his enterprise. * * * * * The events of the day had excited such violent emotions in Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s whole being that she lay back almost fainting in the carriage, after giving the order to drive to Fougeres. Francine was as silent as her mistress. The postilion, dreading some new disaster, made all the haste he could to reach the high-road, and was soon on the summit of La Pelerine. Through the thick white mists of morning Marie de Verneuil crossed the broad and beautiful valley of Couesnon (where this history began) scarcely able to distinguish the slaty rock on which the town of Fougeres stands from the slopes of La Pelerine. They were still eight miles from it. Shivering with cold herself, Mademoiselle de Verneuil recollected the poor soldier behind the carriage, and insisted, against his remonstrances, in taking him into the carriage beside Francine. The sight of Fougeres drew her for a time out of her reflections. The sentinels stationed at the Porte Saint-Leonard refused to allow ingress to the strangers, and she was therefore obliged to exhibit the ministerial order. This at once gave her safety in entering the town, but the postilion could find no other place for her to stop at than the Poste inn. “Madame,” said the Blue whose life she had saved. “If you ever want a sabre to deal some special blow, my life is yours. I am good for that. My name is Jean Falcon, otherwise called Beau-Pied, sergeant of the first company of Hulot’s veterans, seventy-second half-brigade, nicknamed ‘Les Mayencais.’ Excuse my vanity; I can only offer you the soul of a sergeant, but that’s at your service.” He turned on his heel and walked off whistling. “The lower one goes in social life,” said Marie, bitterly, “the more we find generous feelings without display. A marquis returns death for life, and a poor sergeant--but enough of that.”