During the bloodiest epoch of the Reign of Terror, M. d’Escorval had wrested from the guillotine a young girl named Victoire-Laure d’Alleu, a distant cousin of the Rhetaus of Commarin, as beautiful as an angel, and only three years younger than himself.
He loved her—and though she was an orphan, destitute of fortune, he married her, considering the treasure of her virgin heart of far greater value than the most magnificent dowry.
She was an honest woman, as her husband was an honest man, in the most strict and vigorous sense of the word.
She was seldom seen at the Tuileries, where M. d’Escorval’s worth made him eagerly welcomed. The splendors of the Imperial Court, which at that time surpassed all the pomp of the time of Louis XIV., had no attractions for her.
Grace, beauty, youth and accomplishments—she reserved them all for the adornment of her home.
Her husband was her God. She lived in him and through him. She had not a thought which did not belong to him.
The short time that he could spare from his arduous labors to devote to her were her happiest hours.
And when, in the evening, they sat beside the fire in their modest drawing-room, with their son Maurice playing on the rug at their feet, it seemed to them that they had nothing to wish for here below.
The overthrow of the empire surprised them in the heydey of their happiness.
Surprised them? No. For a long time M. d’Escorval had seen the prodigious edifice erected by the genius whom he had made his idol totter as if about to fall.