Sir John was just finishing that interesting bit of history when Madame de Montrevel and her daughter returned. Amélie, who did not know how much had been said about her between Roland and Sir John, was astounded¹ by the expression with which that gentleman scrutinized² her.  
To him she seemed more lovely than before. He could readily understand that mother, who at the risk of life had been unwilling³ that this charming creature should profane⁴ her youth and beauty by serving as a mourner in a celebration of which Marat was the deity⁵. He recalled that cold damp cell which he had lately visited, and shuddered⁶ at the thought that this delicate white ermine before his eyes had been imprisoned⁷ there, without sun or air, for six weeks. He looked at the throat, too long perhaps, but swan-like in its suppleness⁸ and graceful⁹ in its exaggeration, and he remembered that melancholy¹⁰ remark of the poor Princesse de Lamballe, as she felt her slender neck: “It will not give the executioner much trouble!”
 
The thoughts which succeeded each other in Sir John’s mind gave to his face an expression so different from its customary aspect, that Madame de Montrevel could not refrain from asking what troubled him. He then told her of his visit to the prison, and Roland’s pious¹¹ pilgrimage to the dungeon¹² where his mother and sister had been incarcerated¹³. Just as Sir John had concluded his tale, a view-halloo sounded without, and Roland entered, his hunting-horn in his hands.
 
“My dear friend,” he cried, “thanks to my mother, we shall have a splendid hunt to-morrow.”
 
“Thanks to me?” queried¹⁴ Madame de Montrevel.
 
“How so?” added Sir John.
 
“I left you to see about my dogs, didn’t I?”
 
“You said so, at any rate.”
 
“I had two excellent beasts, Barbichon and Ravaude, male and female.”
 
“Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “are they dead?”
 
“Well, yes; but just guess what this excellent mother of mine has done?” and, tilting¹⁵ Madame de Montrevel’s head, he kissed her on both cheeks. “She wouldn’t let them drown a single puppy because they were the dogs of my dogs; so the result is, that to-day the pups, grand-pups, and great-grand-pups of Barbichon and Ravaude are as numerous as the descendant of Ishmael. Instead of a pair of dogs, I have a whole pack, twenty-five beasts, all as black as moles¹⁶ with white paws, fire in their eyes and hearts, and a regiment¹⁷ of cornet-tails that would do you good to see.”
 
And Roland sounded another halloo that brought his young brother to the scene.
 
“Oh!” shouted the boy as he entered, “you are going hunting to-morrow, brother Roland. I’m going, too, I’m going, too!”
 
“Good!” said Roland, “but do you know what we are going to hunt?”
 
“No. All I know is that I’m going, too.”
 
“We’re going to hunt a boar.”
 
“Oh, joy!” cried the boy, clapping his little hands.
 
“Are you crazy?” asked Madame de Montrevel, turning pale.
 
“Why so, madame mother, if you please?”
 
“Because boar hunts are very dangerous.”
 
“Not so dangerous as hunting men. My brother got back safe from that, and so will I from the other.”
 
“Roland,” cried Madame de Montrevel, while Amélie, lost in thought, took no part in the discussion, “Roland, make Edouard listen to reason. Tell him that he hasn’t got common-sense.”
 
But Roland, who recognized himself again in his young brother, instead of blaming him, smiled at his boyish ardor¹⁸. “I’d take you willingly,” said he, “only to go hunting one must at least know how to handle a gun.”
 
“Oh, Master Roland,” cried Edouard, “just come into the garden a bit. Put up your hat at a hundred yards, and I’ll show you how to handle a gun.”
 
“Naughty child,” exclaimed Madame de Montrevel, trembling, “where did you learn?”
 
“Why, from the gunsmith at Montagnac, who keeps papa’s and Roland’s guns. You ask me sometimes what I do with my money, don’t you? Well, I buy powder and balls with it, and I am learning to kill Austrians and Arabs like my brother Roland.”
 
Madame de Montrevel raised her hands to heaven.
 
“What can you expect, mother?” asked Roland. “Blood will tell. No Montrevel could be afraid of powder. You shall come with us to-morrow, Edouard.”
 
The boy sprang upon his brother’s neck.
 
“And I,” said Sir John, “will equip you to-day like a regular huntsman, just as they used to arm the knights¹⁹ of old. I have a charming little rifle that I will give you. It will keep you contented²⁰ until your sabre and pistols come.”
 
“Well,” asked Roland, “are you satisfied now, Edouard?”
 
“Yes; but when will he give it to me? If you have to write to England for it, I warn you I shan’t believe in it.”
 
“No, my little friend, we have only to go up to my room and open my gun-case. That’s soon done.”
 
“Then, let’s go at once.”
 
“Come on,” said Sir John; and he went out, followed by Edouard.
 
A moment later, Amélie, still absorbed in thought, rose and left the room. Neither Madame de Montrevel nor Roland noticed her departure, so interested were they in a serious discussion. Madame de Montrevel tried to persuade Roland not to take his young brother with him on the morrow’s hunt. Roland explained that, since Edouard was to become a soldier like his father and brother, the sooner he learned to handle a gun and become familiar with powder and ball the better. The discussion was not yet ended when Edouard returned with his gun slung²¹ over his shoulder.
 
“Look, brother,” said he, turning to Roland; “just see what a fine present Sir John has given me.” And he looked gratefully at Sir John, who stood in the doorway²² vainly seeking Amélie with his eyes.
 
It was in truth a beautiful present. The rifle, designed with that plainness of ornament²³ and simplicity²⁴ of form peculiar²⁵ to English weapons, was of the finest finish. Like the pistols, of which Roland had had opportunity to test the accuracy, the rifle was made by the celebrated²⁶ Manton, and carried a twenty-four calibre bullet. That it had been originally intended for a woman was easily seen by the shortness of the stock and the velvet²⁷ pad on the trigger. This original purpose of the weapon made it peculiarly suitable for a boy of twelve.
 
Roland took the rifle from his brother’s shoulder, looked at it knowingly, tried its action, sighted it, tossed it from one hand to the other, and then, giving it back to Edouard, said: “Thank Sir John again. You have a rifle fit for a king’s son. Let’s go and try it.”
 
All three went out to try Sir John’s rifle, leaving Madame de Montrevel as sad as Thetis when she saw Achilles in his woman’s garb²⁸ draw the sword of Ulysses from its scabbard.
 
A quarter of an hour later, Edouard returned triumphantly²⁹. He brought his mother a bit of pasteboard of the circumference³⁰ of a hat, in which he had put ten bullets out of twelve. The two men had remained behind in the park conversing³¹.
 
Madame de Montrevel listened to Edouard’s slightly boastful account of his prowess. Then she looked at him with that deep and holy sorrow of mothers to whom fame is no compensation for the blood it sheds. Oh! ungrateful indeed is the child who has seen that look bent³² upon him and does not eternally remember it. Then, after a few seconds of this painful contemplation, she pressed her second son to her breast, and murmured sobbing³³: “You, too! you, too, will desert your mother some day.”
 
“Yes, mother,” replied the boy, “to become a general like my father, or an aide-de-camp like Roland.”
 
“And to be killed as your father was, as your brother perhaps will be.”
 
For the strange transformation³⁴ in Roland’s character had not escaped Madame de Montrevel. It was but an added dread³⁵ to her other anxieties, among which Amélie’s pallor and abstraction must be numbered.
 
Amélie was just seventeen; her childhood had been that of a happy laughing girl, joyous³⁶ and healthy. The death of her father had cast a black veil over her youth and gayety. But these tempests of spring pass rapidly. Her smile, the sunshine of life’s dawn, returned like that of Nature, sparkling through that dew of the heart we call tears.
 
Then, one day about six months before this story opens, Amélie’s face had saddened, her cheeks had grown pale, and, like the birds who migrate at the approach of wintry weather, the childlike laughter that escaped her parted lips and white teeth had fled never to return.
 
Madame de Montrevel had questioned her, but Amélie asserted that she was still the same. She endeavored to smile, but as a stone thrown into a lake rings upon the surface, so the smiles roused by this maternal³⁷ solicitude³⁸ faded, little by little, from Amélie’s face. With keen maternal instinct Madame de Montrevel had thought of love. But whom could Amélie love? There were no visitors at the Château des Noires-Fontaines, the political troubles had put an end to all society, and Amélie went nowhere alone. Madame de Montrevel could get no further than conjecture³⁹. Roland’s return had given her a moment’s hope; but this hope fled as soon as she perceived the effect which this event had produced upon Amélie.
 
It was not a sister, but a spectre, it will be recalled, who had come to meet him. Since her son’s arrival, Madame de Montrevel had not lost sight of Amélie, and she perceived, with ............