nce that,
or, rather, a new and a very differently minded class had succeeded.
Marat, Danton, and Robespierre had no resemblance with Sieyes, Carnot,
and Buonaparte. The simple-minded priest, however, recognised no
distinction: he thought that, as the stream issued from a tainted
source, the current could never become purer by flowing; and he
delighted, with all the enthusiasm of a _devote_, to exaggerate the
evil traits of those whose exploits of heroism might have dazzled and
fascinated unthinking understandings.

Alfred was about sixteen, when one evening, nigh sunset, a peasant
approached the Chateau in eager haste to say that a party of soldiers
were coming up the little road which led towards the house, instead of
turning off, as they usually did, to the village of Puy de Dome, half a
league further down the valley.

Pere Duclos, who assumed absolute authority over the household since
the old Count had fallen into a state of childlike dotage, hastened to
provide himself with the writ of exemption from billet the Directory had
conferred on the chateau--an _amende_ for the terrible misfortunes of
the ruined family--and advanced to meet the party, the leading files of
which were already in sight.

Nothing could less have suggested the lawless depredators of
the Republic than the little column that now drew near. Four
chasseurs-a-pied led the van, their clothes ragged and torn, their shoes
actually in ribbons; one had his arm in a sling, and another carried
his shako on his back, as his head was bound up in a handkerchief, whose
blood-stained folds shewed the marks of a severe sabre-cut. Behind them
came a litter, or, rather, a cart with a canvass awning, in which lay
the wounded body of their officer; the rear consisting of about fourteen
others, under the command of a sergeant.

They halted and formed as the old Pere approached them, and the
sergeant, stepping to the front, carried his hand to his cap in military
salute; and then, without waiting for the priest to speak, he began
a very civil, almost an humble, apology, for the liberty of their
intrusion.

"We are," said he, "an invalid party, _en route_ for Paris, with an
officer who was severely wounded at the bridge of Lodi." And here
he lowered his voice to a whisper: "The poor lieutenant's case being
hopeless, and his constant wish--his prayer,--being to see his mother
before he dies, we are pushing on for her Chateau, which is near St.
Jean de Luc, I he