e street, and without so
much as thanking my comrade for his attentions, I glided into an
unfrequented lane, the comte at my heels; and I did not stop, nor look
around, nor speak, till I found myself under cover of an old windmill
near St. Denis, where I used to play when I was a boy. There I came to a
halt, and seizing the comte in my arms, I embraced him a thousand times.
I look some provisions from my pouch, which my cousin had provided, and
bade him eat, for we should stand in need of food. We then proceeded,
avoiding the main road, and getting a ride whenever we could, but never
wasting a moment--not a moment. I told the comte what had happened, and
that he must hasten if he would see his wife alive. At last we came near
our house. The comte could scarcely contain himself; he ran before me: I
could not keep up with him. How my heart was filled with
foreboding!--how I dreaded to come nearer!--but apprehension was soon at
an end. There was my little cottage, and in the doorway, leaning for
support against the side, stood the comtesse, gazing on vacancy--the
picture of despair and desolation. At the sight of her husband, she
threw out her hands and tried to advance: she was too feeble, and would
have fallen had he not the same moment folded her in his arms.

"'_Bien Monsieur!_' continued Louis Herbois, after clearing his voice,
'the worst of the story is told. The comtesse was gradually restored to
health, and the comte was content to remain quietly with us till the
storm swept past; but the lady never recovered the bright spirits which
she before displayed, and the comte himself could never speak of the
little one whom he kissed for the last time on that fatal morning,
without the deepest emotion. It seems to have been destined that this
should be their only affliction. The uncle was beheaded in one of the
sudden changes of parties the succeeding year, and in due time the comte
regained his estates. Sons and daughters were born to them, and their
family have grown up in unbroken numbers. The comte and comtesse can
scarcely yet be called old, their health and vigor remain, and they
enjoy still those blessings which a kind Providence is pleased to bestow
on the most favored. But the Comtesse de Choissy will never forget the
child which lies _there_. Twice a year, accompanied by the comte, she
visits the cottage. She lays with her own hands fresh flowers over the
little grave, and waters the moss which overspreads it; an