er than Monsieur d'Hauteserre, instead of discussing principles,
drew pictures of the material advantages of the consular rule, less to
convert the countess than to detect in her eyes some expression
which might enlighten him as to her projects. Gothard's frequent
disappearances, the long rides of his mistress, and her evident
preoccupation, which, for the last few days, had appeared in her face,
together with other little signs not to be hidden in the silence and
tranquillity of such a life, had roused the fears of these submissive
royalists. Still, as no event happened, and perfect quiet appeared to
reign in the political atmosphere, the minds of the little household
were soothed into peace, and the countess's long rides were one more
attributed to her passion for hunting.

It is easy to imagine the deep silence which reigned at nine o'clock in
the evening in the park, courtyards, and gardens of Cinq-Cygne, where at
that particular moment the persons we have described were harmoniously
grouped, where perfect peace pervaded all things, where comfort and
abundance were again enjoyed, and where the worthy and judicious old
gentleman was still hoping to convert his late ward to his system of
obedience to the ruling powers by the argument of what we may call the
continuity of prosperous results.

These royalists continued to play their boston, a game which spread
ideas of independence under a frivolous form over the whole of France;
for it was first invented in honor of the American insurgents, its very
terms applying to the struggle which Louis XVI. encouraged. While making
their "independences" and "poverties," the players kept an eye on the
countess, who had fallen asleep, overcome by fatigue, with a singular
smile on her lips, her last waking thought having been of the terror two
words could inspire in the minds of the peaceful company by informing
the d'Hauteserres that their sons had passed the preceding night under
that roof. What young girl of twenty-three would not have been, as
Laurence was, proud to play the part of Destiny? and who would not have
felt, as she did, a sense of compassion for those whom she felt to be so
far below her in loyalty?

"She sleeps," said the abbe. "I have never seen her so wearied."

"Durieu tells me her mare is almost foundered," remarked Madame
d'Hauteserre. "Her gun has not been fired; the breech is clean; she has
evidently not hunted."

"Oh! that's neither here nor there," sai