“But, M. le Comte,” I protested, forgetting for a moment my own troubles in the interest of the narrative, “fighting of that sort can be successful only near home and in a most favorable country. For a campaign troops must have organization.” “That is true, my friend,” he agreed. “Well, these troops are being organized. Once the Bocage is free of the Blues, which will be within the month, our army will be ready to cross the Loire, take Nantes, advance through Brittany, Normandy, and Maine, where we shall be well received, and at last march at the head of a united north-west against Paris itself! I tell you, Tavernay, the Republic is doomed!” His eyes were sparkling, his face flushed with excitement. An electric shock seemed to run around the board, and madame sprang to her feet, glass in hand. “The King!” she cried, and as we rose to drink the toast I had a vision of a boy of twelve issuing triumphantly from the gate of the Temple to avenge his murdered father. “And may God protect him!” added M. le Comte, as we set our glasses down. There was gloom for a moment in our hearts, and I at least felt the stark horror of the Revolution as I had never done. I saw more clearly its blood-guiltiness, its red madness. For in our quiet home at Beaufort the delirium of Paris had seemed far away, almost of another age and country. We had shuddered at the stories of the September massacres, but only as one shudders at any tale of horror; even yet we scarcely believed that the King was really dead. It seemed impossible that such things could happen. Just as the body pushed beyond a certain limit of pain grows numb and suffers no more, so the mind after a certain time refuses to be impressed. It was thus with the reports which came from Paris, as one followed another, each more terrible than the last. Not even the actors in that hideous drama comprehended what was passing there; they were but chips in a maelstrom, hurled hither and thither, utterly powerless to stay or to direct the flood which hurried them on and finally sucked them down. We of Beaufort were far off the beaten track, and of too little consequence to cause the tide of revolution to sweep in our direction; so it had passed us by at such a distance that we had caught only the faint, confused murmur of it. True, our peasants had for the most part deserted us; our fields were untilled, our flocks untended. There was no money in the till and little meat in the larder. But personally we had experienced no danger, and expected none. We had been content to sit quietly by while France wrought out her destiny, pitying those less fortunate than ourselves, and happy in the safety which our obscurity won for us.