sudden gleam of hope, "may not good for us spring out of this madness of theirs? Might we not, even if you draw a bad number, find a substitute? You know there is nothing we would not part with to raise the money—nothing."
Henri shook his head. "Last time," he said, "the price went up to three thousand francs, and beyond it. Indeed, it was difficult to get one at any price. But that is not all,"—he lowered his voice: "Clémence, I have reason to think M. le Maire means no good to me."
She started. "Why do you say that?" she asked, with a quick fading of the new-born hope.
"Quietly as we have lived here," Henri resumed, "we are not quite unknown. Every one is aware that I am the son of Henri Charles de Talmont, who died for his King in La Vendée. I have no favour to hope. On the contrary, I think M. le Maire would be glad to see me with a musket on my shoulder."
"If that be the case," Clémence returned sadly, "at least we may thank God that he cannot tamper with the numbers."
"The numbers we are to draw? They matter less than you think. The lists must be filled up; and so many young men have been taken already that few enough are left to choose from now. In any case, our little village will have to contribute its full quota; and even should I succeed in escaping, some other luckless lad will have to go in my place."
"It is not the misfortune of serving as a soldier that you want to escape, but the dishonour, nay the sin, of serving a usurper."
"But, Clémence"— He paused.
"Well, brother?"
"It is no sin to fight for France,—for France, not for Napoleon."
"There is no France," Clémence returned proudly—"no
