“It is no sin to fight for France,--for France, not for Napoleon.” “There is no France,” Clémence returned proudly--“no France that we can recognize apart from the King of France, Louis Dix-huit.” “Of whom _I_ know no more than Féron or Bonin knows of the Emperor of Russia.” “What does that matter? What do you mean, Henri?” “That we think Féron and Bonin a couple of fools because they are longing to go and destroy the Emperor of Russia, about whom they know nothing. Are _we_ so much wiser if we let ourselves be destroyed for a king of France about whom we know just as little?” “Not for _a_ king of France, but for _the_ King,” Clémence answered gently. “And not alone for the King, but for truth, and loyalty, and God.” No more was said; for at that moment they heard the voice of Madame de Talmont, who, having finished her letter, called her daughter to read it. Henri stood yet beside the window; but it was not the quiet wintry scene without which was passing before the boy’s anxious eyes. He saw instead his mother’s peaceful home invaded by ruthless soldiers; he heard the clank of their spurs, the tread of their feet upon the stair, their oaths, their threats as they sought everywhere for him, the fugitive. He saw--he heard much more--his dwelling given over to pillage--_that_, perhaps, might be borne; but his mother, his sister, exposed to all the wrongs and insults a lawless soldiery could inflict, and _had_ inflicted in like cases! No; he could not risk it. Not for all the kings of France that ever wore a crown! Better serve Napoleon--better a thousand times! And, after all, what was Napoleon--what were emperors and kings, to him and his? What was death on the battle-field? He had always heard that such a death was honourable and noble, and at all events a man could die but once. But the deserter’s fate was only terrible; suffering without glory, “the pang without the palm.” From those dreary fortress prisons where the “refractory” toiled in the garb of convicts, fed on bread and water, with shaven heads and fettered feet, no man ever came forth alive. Days wore on, bringing the dreaded morning that was to decide the fate of the conscripts. Madame de Talmont wrapped her mantle around her and took the arm of her son. Clémence also was prepared to accompany them to the village. Henri, who looked very pale, attempted a remonstrance. “The place will be crowded to-day,” he said. “It is not fit for _you_, mother, or for Clémence.” But they would not listen. “There is no country lad,” said his mother, “who will not have his people with him to-day to learn his fate; and shall De Talmont go to the drawing alone, as if no one cared for him?”