concealment; this he knew well enough; still he could not bring himself
to be patient. Do not think, Monsieur, that the Comte de Choissy failed
to love his wife just as ever: that was not it at all. A man is a man
the world about; the comte felt as any body would feel who finds himself
rusting away like an old musket, which has been tossed aside into some
miserable cock-loft. I had seen the world and knew how it was with him.
But what could be done? In Paris things were getting worse and worse. At
first we had _le Cote Gauche; les Montagnards; les Jacobines_: then came
_les Patriotes de '93_; and after that, _les Patriotes par excellence_,
who were succeeded by _les Patriotes plus patriotes que les patriotes_:
and then the devil was let loose in mad earnest; for what with _les
Bonnets-Rouges, les Enrages, les Terroristes, les Beveurs de Sang_, and
_les Chevaliers du Poignard_, Paris was converted into a more fitting
abode for Satan than his old-fashioned country residence down below.
_Pardon Monsieur!_ I am getting warm; but it always stirs my blood when
I recall those days. I see, too, I am getting from my story. Well: I
tried to comfort the comte with such scraps of philosophy as I had
picked up in my campaigns--for in the army, you must know, one learns
many a good maxim--but I did little by that. The sweet young comtesse
was the only one who could make him cheerful, and smile, and laugh, and
seem happy in a natural way, for he loved her as tenderly as a man ever
loved; besides, the comtesse had now a stronger claim than ever upon her
husband. I fancy I can see her sitting _there_, her face bent over,
employing her needle upon certain diminutive articles, whose use it is
very easy to understand. Do you know, when she was at work on _these_,
that she was serious--never playful--_always_ serious; wearing the same
expression as when she received from her husband a tender word? No:
nothing could make her merry then. I used to sit and wonder how the
self-same person could become so changed all in one minute. How the
comte loved to look at her! his eyes were upon her wherever she was; not
a word she spoke, not a step she took, not a motion of hers escaped him.
Well, the time came at last, and by the blessing of God and the Holy
Virgin, as beautiful a child as the world ever welcomed, was placed by
my Agathe in the arms of the comtesse. Perhaps,' added Louis Herbois, in
a lower voice, while speech seemed for the instant diffic