“Ah, Victoire! Poor child! she was more sinned against than sinning. But her life was wrecked; and that sin lies at the door of Louis de Talmont. In those early days of the Revolution many foreigners came to Paris. With one of these, who was young, brilliant, wealthy, and noble, Louis formed, after his fashion, a violent friendship. M. le Prince, as we used to call him, had a fine figure, a handsome face, and the most splendid diamonds I have ever seen. But there was an end of his perfections; and great as they may have been, they could scarcely atone for a head and heart as empty as air. Being a stranger, with nothing to lose, and no knowledge of our past to restrain him, he went farther than even his misguided teachers. There was no excess of the mob, in those evil days, in which he did not bear a part. In the Jacobin halls his voice was the loudest, his counsel the most violent; and ever on his lips was that misused, delusive cry, ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.’ It was to this man that Louis de Talmont must needs give the hand of his sister, the cherished daughter of his house.”
“Poor Victoire! How terrible for her! How miserable she must have been! And this foreign prince—did he perish on the scaffold, like our Cousin Louis?”
“No; he escaped that fate. When the storm he and his friends had evoked passed beyond their control, and the Revolution began to devour its own children, he found safety in flight.”
“And Victoire?”
“His wife went with him. I believe he took her to his own country. It is but justice to say that he seemed to love her well. But her place here knew her no more; she has been dead ever since to all who held her dear. Her name has passed into eternal silence. And when God gave you to us, your father said to me, ‘M’amie, for many years now the world has been talking of nothing but peace and love and the universal brotherhood of man; but because in the brotherhood of man men have forgotten the Fatherhood of God, their peace is ending in war, and their love in hatred such as earth has seldom seen. By the time this babe is a woman grown, perhaps once again the world will have tired of war and victory’ (only in this way did he utter the name), ‘and may be glad to be reminded of the existence of such things as clemency and forgiveness; so I propose that we call the daughter of our house Clémence.’ Accordingly, Clémence you are.”
“It is quite right, mother. I like my name. Clemency should always follow victory.—Ah! there is Henri. His step is tired and slow.”
Henri came in, and in the old ceremonious way kissed his mother’s hand and asked after her health. But the look that passed between them showed that although Madame de Talmont loved both her children intensely, her son was the very joy of her existence; while on his part, the love of his mother was the strongest passion that had yet found entrance into his young heart. His face was pale and anxious; indeed it wore almost an expression of terror.
“What is the matter?” his mother asked presently.
“Nothing particular,—nothing much,” said Henri.
“Whatever it is, speak, my son,—and at once,” said Madame de Talmont imperatively.