pressive still, as we stand in it alone. The
present, however, was less before me than the past, of which every thing
reminded me. There was the seat the marquise used to sit in; there the
footstool I had so often placed at her feet. How different was the last
service I had rendered her! There the pillar, beside which I have stood
spell-bound, gazing at that fair face, whose beauty arrested the
thoughts that should have wended heavenward, and made my muttered
prayers like offerings to herself. The very bouquet of flowers--some
peri's hand had placed beneath the shrine--withered and faded, was there
still. But where were they whose beating hearts had throbbed with deep
devotion? How many had died upon the scaffold!--how many were still
lingering in imprisonment, some in exile, some in concealment, dragging
out lives of misery and anxiety. What was the sustaining spirit of such
martyrdom? I asked myself again and again. Was it the zeal of true
religion, or was it the energy of loyalty, that bore them up against
every danger, and enabled them to brave death itself with firmness?--and
if this faith of theirs was thus ennobling, why could not France be of
one mind and heart? There came no answer to these doubts of mine, and I
slowly advanced toward the altar, still deeply buried in thought. What
was my surprise to see that two candles stood there, which bore signs of
having been recently lighted. At once the whole truth flashed across
me--the Pere had been there; he had come to celebrate a mass--the last,
perhaps, he was ever to offer up at that altar. I knew with what warm
affection he loved every object and every spot endeared to him by long
time, and I fancied to myself the overflowing of his heart, as he
entered once more, and for the last time, the little temple, associated
with all the joys and sorrows of his existence. Doubtless, too, he had
waited anxiously for my coming; mayhap, in the prayers he offered, I was
not forgotten. I thought of him kneeling there, in the silence of the
night, alone, as he was, his gentle voice the only sound in the
stillness of the hour; his pure heart throbbing with gratitude for his
deliverance, and prayerful hopes for those who had been his persecutors.
I thought over all this, and, in a torrent of emotions, I knelt down
before the altar to pray. I know not what words I uttered, but his name
must some how have escaped my lips; for suddenly a door opened beside
the altar, and the Pere Mic