Sophie, who had not spoken one word all the way home, seized my hand.
“Réné,” she said, “do not forget that you have given me your word; I trust you.”
“Mademoiselle Sophie,” said I, pressing her hand to my heart, “one call alone can be stronger than yours—that of my country.”
M. Gerbaut stayed about an hour to rest his horse, and then, with Sophie, mounted into his vehicle.
The poor girl waved her hand. Father Gerbaut cried “Farewell!” and the carriage disappeared behind a clump of trees, which hid the road to Meuvilly.
I returned to where Sophie had been sitting down; I picked up the flowers she had let fall, and placed them in my little portfolio, together with the letter which she had written to me at Varennes, and in which she had poured forth all her soul.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PEOPLE IN COUNCIL.
On the morrow, the ninth of July, ’90, we were en route at daybreak, drums beating in front of us, to assist in the celebration of the grand fête of the general federation.
Father Descharmes embraced me, with an expression of sorrow which wounded me to the heart.