“No; he escaped that fate. When the storm he and his friends had evoked passed beyond their control, and the Revolution began to devour its own children, he found safety in flight.” “And Victoire?” “His wife went with him. I believe he took her to his own country. It is but justice to say that he seemed to love her well. But her place here knew her no more; she has been dead ever since to all who held her dear. Her name has passed into eternal silence. And when God gave you to us, your father said to me, ‘M’amie, for many years now the world has been talking of nothing but peace and love and the universal brotherhood of man; but because in the brotherhood of man men have forgotten the Fatherhood of God, their peace is ending in war, and their love in hatred such as earth has seldom seen. By the time this babe is a woman grown, perhaps once again the world will have tired of war and _victory_’ (only in this way did he utter the name), ‘and may be glad to be reminded of the existence of such things as clemency and forgiveness; so I propose that we call the daughter of our house Clémence.’ Accordingly, Clémence you are.” “It is quite right, mother. I like my name. Clemency should always follow victory.--Ah! there is Henri. His step is tired and slow.” Henri came in, and in the old ceremonious way kissed his mother’s hand and asked after her health. But the look that passed between them showed that although Madame de Talmont loved both her children intensely, her son was the very joy of her existence; while on his part, the love of his mother was the strongest passion that had yet found entrance into his young heart. His face was pale and anxious; indeed it wore almost an expression of terror. “What is the matter?” his mother asked presently. “Nothing particular,--nothing much,” said Henri. “Whatever it is, speak, my son,--and at once,” said Madame de Talmont imperatively. “There is a placard on the Mairie announcing that the drawing for the conscription is to take place next Thursday. It is as the curé told us: all are liable who will be eighteen in the course of the year.” Both his hearers grew pale, and the work fell from their hands. After a short pause his mother said, “It is plain you will have to attend. God grant you may draw a good number. But, at all events--” She remained silent for some moments, then she added, in a voice which struggled hard to be calm, “Bring me my desk, Clémence; we must be prepared for the worst.” Clémence obeyed mechanically, while Henri stood silent and listless, watching her movements. “Henri,” resumed Madame de Talmont, “I am going to write to our good friend Grandpierre. _Should_ the worst happen, you must escape, and go to him through the forest. He will shelter you.” “But, mother, mother”--the lad’s colour came and went, and a quiver ran through his frame--“the risk is terrible.” “To _him_? He will venture it, for the House of Talmont, for his King, and for his God.”