would be best to say no more, but to do their best to save the poor
woman from the abyss toward which she was hurrying.

"If you talk about this affair," he said, "I shall be obliged to take
notice of it, and search her house, and THEN--"

He said no more, but all present understood what he meant.
The sincere friends of Madame de Dey were so alarmed about her, that

on the morning of the third day, the procureur-syndic of the commune
made his wife write her a letter, urging her to receive her visitors

as usual that evening. Bolder still, the old merchant went himself in
the morning to Madame de Dey's house, and, strong in the service he

wanted to render her, he insisted on seeing her, and was amazed to
find her in the garden gathering flowers for her vases.

"She must be protecting a lover," thought the old man, filled with
sudden pity for the charming woman.

The singular expression on the countess's face strengthened this
conjecture. Much moved at the thought of such devotion, for all men

are flattered by the sacrifices a woman makes for one of them, the old
man told the countess of the rumors that were floating about the town,

and the dangers to which she was exposing herself.
"For," he said in conclusion, "though some of the authorities will

readily pardon a heroism which protects a priest, none of them will
spare you if they discover that you are sacrificing yourself to the

interests of your heart."
At these words Madame de Dey looked at the old man with a wild and

bewildered air, that made him shudder.
"Come," she said, taking him by the hand and leading him into her

bedroom. After assuring herself that they were quite alone, she drew
from her bosom a soiled and crumpled letter.

"Read that," she said, making a violent effort to say the words.
She fell into a chair, seemingly exhausted. While the old man searched

for his spectacles and rubbed their glasses, she raised her eyes to
him, and seemed to study him with curiosity; then she said in an

altered voice, and very softly,--
"I trust you."

"I am here to share your crime," replied the good man, simply.
She quivered. For the first time in that little town, her soul

sympathized with that of another. The old man now understood both the
hopes and the fears of the poor woman. The letter was from her son. He

had returned to France to share in Granville's expedition, and was
taken prisoner. The letter was written from his cell, but it told her

to hope. He did not doubt his means of escape, and he named to her
three days, on one of which he expected to be with her in disguise.

But in case he did not reach Carentan by the third day, she might know
some fatal difficulty had occurred, and the letter contained his last

wishes and a sad farewell. The paper trembled in the old man's hand.
"This is the third day," cried the countess, rising and walking

hurriedly up and down.
"You have been very imprudent," said the merchant. "Why send Brigitte

to buy those provisions?"
"But he may arrive half-dead with hunger, exhausted, and--"

She could say no more.
"I am sure of my brother the mayor," said the old man. "I will see him

at once, and put him in your interests."
After talking with the mayor, the shrewd old man made visits on

various pretexts to the principal families of Carentan, to all of whom
he mentioned that Madame de Dey, in spite of her illness, would

receive her friends that evening. Matching his own craft against those
wily Norman minds, he replied to the questions put to him on the

nature of Madame de Dey's illness in a manner that hoodwinked the
community. He related to a gouty old dame, that Madame de Dey had

almost died of a sudden attack of gout in the stomach, but had been
relieved by a remedy which the famous doctor, Tronchin, had once

recommended to her,--namely, to apply the skin of a freshly-flayed
hare on the pit of the stomach, and to remain in bed without making

the slightest movement for two days. This tale had prodigious success,
and the doctor of Carentan, a royalist "in petto," increased its

effect by the manner in which he discussed the remedy.
Nevertheless, suspicions had taken too strong a root in the minds of

some obstinate persons, and a few philosophers, to be thus dispelled;
so that all Madame de Dey's usual visitors came eagerly and early that

evening to watch her countenance: some out of true friendship, but
most of them to detect the secret of her seclusion.

They found the countess seated as usual, at the corner of the great
fireplace in her salon, a room almost as unpretentious as the other

salons in Carentan; for, in order not to wound the narrow view of her
guests, she denied herself the luxuries to which she was accustomed.

The floor of her reception room was not even waxed, the walls were
still hung with dingy tapestries; she used the country furniture,

burned tallow candles, and followed the customs of the town,--adopting
provincial life, and not shrinking from its pettiness or its many

disagreeable privations. Knowing, however, that her guests would
pardon luxuries if provided for their own comfort, she neglected

nothing which conduced to their personal enjoyment, and gave them,
more especially, excellent dinners.

Toward seven o'clock on this memorable evening, her guests were all
assembled in a wide circle around the fireplace. The mistress of the

house, sustained in her part by the sympathizing glances of the old
merchant, submitted with wonderful courage to the minute questioning

and stupid, or frivolous, comments of her visitors. At every rap upon
her door, every footfall echoing in the street, she hid her emotions

by starting topics relating to the interests of the town, and she
raised such a livelydiscussion on the quality of ciders, which was

ably seconded by the old merchant, that the company almost forgot to
watch her, finding her countenance quite natural, and her composure

imperturbable. The public prosecutor and one of the judges of the
revolutionary tribunal was taciturn, observing attentively every

change in her face; every now and then they addressed her some
embarrassing question, to which, however, the countess answered with

admirable presence of mind. Mothers have such courage!
After Madame de Dey had arranged the card parties, placing some guests

at the boston, and some at the whist tables, she stood talking to a
number of young people with extreme ease and liveliness of manner,

playing her part like a consummateactress. Presently she suggested a
game of loto, and offered to find the box, on the ground that she

alone knew where it was, and then she disappeared.
"I am suffocating, my poor Brigitte," she cried, wiping the tears that

gushed from her eyes, now brilliant with fever, anxiety, and
impatience. "He does not come," she moaned, looking round the room

prepared for her son. "Here alone I can breathe, I can live! A few
minutes more and he MUST be here; for I know he is living. I am

certain of it, my heart says so. Don't you hear something, Brigitte? I
would give the rest of my life to know at this moment whether he were

still in prison, or out in the free country. Oh! I wish I could stop
thinking--"

She again examined the room to see if all were in order. A good fire
burned on the hearth, the shutters were carefully closed, the

furniture shone with rubbing; even the manner in which the bed was
made showed that the countess had assisted Brigitte in every detail;

her hopes were uttered in the delicate care given to that room where
she expected to fold her son in her arms. A mother alone could have

thought of all his wants; a choice repast, rare wine, fresh linen,
slippers, in short, everything the tired man would need,--all were

there that nothing might be lacking; the comforts of his home should
reveal to him without words the tenderness of his mother!

"Brigitte!" said the countess, in a heart-rending tone, placing a
chair before the table, as if to give a semblance of reality to her

hopes, and so increase the strength of her illusions.
"Ah! madame, he will come. He is not far off. I haven't a doubt he is

living, and on his way," replied Brigitte. "I put a key in the Bible,
and I held it on my fingers while Cottin read a chapter in the gospel

of Saint John; and, madame, the key never turned at all!"
"Is that a good sign?" asked the countess.