“I do _not_ know it,” Clémence answered. “The curé says he fears all are liable who will complete their eighteenth year in 1812. That is why I want you to go and see whether the placard is there, before we alarm our mother. But take your coffee first, brother. I will bring it to you, if you like.” She brought him a cup of fragrant café-au-lait, and a fresh roll, prepared that morning by her own hands. He had just begun to eat and drink when a voice from an adjoining room--like her own, gentle and musical, but decided--called, “Clémence.” “Don’t delay about the Mairie,” she said as she hastened in. “I will tell our mother you are going for a walk.” Grave, sweet, and dignified was the lady who stood at the table in the little parlour. Her face was worn and pale; the hair that appeared beneath her snowy cap was slightly silvered; and in her demeanour something of antique stateliness combined with the peculiar and inimitable grace of the old _régime_. A dress of purple brocade, rich and stiff, lay on the table before her. “Come here, Clémence,” she said; “I want to make this dress fit you.” But Clémence shrank back. “Oh no, no, mother!” she said, with an air of pain. “But yes,” returned Madame de Talmont, in a quiet, peremptory voice. “Not a word, my daughter; it is yours.” And seating herself, she took up a pair of scissors, and began to rip off some antiquated trimming from the sleeve. Clémence felt almost as if a living thing she loved was being hurt. Tears quivered in her eyes, and the colour rose to her cheek as she laid her hand on her mother’s arm. “Mother, listen to me,” she pleaded. “Do not touch that gown. It would never suit _me_. Is it well, think you, that I should go to mass on Sundays looking like a princess, while the few who know of our existence know also that we have scarcely bread to eat from day to day? Is it suitable? And besides, dear mother,” she continued timidly, “you know I do not love gay clothing. I do not think it becomes a girl who, however unworthily, still desires and endeavours to lead a religious life.” “Be as religious as you please, my dear daughter,” said Madame de Talmont, with a slight smile, “but be dutiful also, and believe that I know how Mademoiselle de Talmont ought to appear at mass much better than she does herself.” “Mother, that is not all,” Clémence resumed. “I had rather keep that gown of yours all my life as it is now. It is part of my childhood; and, mother dear,” she continued sadly, “there is so little of our childhood left to Henri and me. One of the earliest things I can remember is your showing that dress to me and telling me how my father brought it home to you the first time he went to Paris after his marriage, and how you wore it when you stood at the window of our old château in the Bocage, and watched him as he rode out with his men to join the Royalists.”