before,' said she, smiling. 'It was
in a remote quarter of Paris, nigh the outer Boulevard, and known to but
a very few. It had once belonged to our family; for in olden times there
were chateaux and country-houses within that space, which then was part
of Paris, and one of our ancestors was buried there. How well I remember
it all! The dim little aisle, supported on wooden pillars; the simple
altar, with the oaken crucifix, and the calm, gentle features of the
poor cure.'

'Can you remember all this so well?' asked I eagerly, for the theme was
stirring my very heart of hearts.

'All--everything--the straggling, weed-grown garden, through which we
passed to our daily devotions, the congregation standing respectfully to
let us walk by, for my mother was still the great Marquise d'Estelles,
although my father had been executed, and our estates confiscated. They
who had known us in our prosperity were as respectful and devoted as
ever; and poor old Richard, the lame sacristan, that used to take my
mother's bouquet from her, and lay it on the altar; how everything
stands out clear and distinct before my memory! Nay, Maurice, but I can
tell you more, for strangely enough, certain things, merely trifles in
themselves, make impressions that even great events fail to do. There
was a little boy, a child somewhat older than myself, that used to serve
the mass with the pere, and he always came to place a footstool or a
cushion for my mother. Poor little fellow, bashful and diffident he was,
changing colour at every minute, and trembling in every limb; and when
he had done his duty, and made his little reverence, with his hands
crossed on his bosom, he used to fall back into some gloomy corner of
the church, and stand watching us with an expression of intense wonder
and pleasure! Yes, I think I see his dark eyes, glistening through the
gloom, ever fixed on me! I am sure, Maurice, that little fellow fancied
he was in love with me!'

'And why not, Laura? was the thing so very impossible? was it even so
unlikely?'

'Not that,' said she archly; 'but think of a mere child; we were both
mere children; and fancy him, the poor little boy, of some humble house,
perhaps--of course he must have been that--raising his eyes to the
daughter of the great "marquise"; what energy of character there must
have been to have suggested the feeling! how daring he was, with all his
bashfulness!'

'You never saw him afterwards?'

'Never!'

'Never