and began to rip off some antiquated trimming from the sleeve.
Clémence felt almost as if a living thing she loved was being hurt. Tears quivered in her eyes, and the colour rose to her cheek as she laid her hand on her mother's arm. "Mother, listen to me," she pleaded. "Do not touch that gown. It would never suit me. Is it well, think you, that I should go to mass on Sundays looking like a princess, while the few who know of our existence know also that we have scarcely bread to eat from day to day? Is it suitable? And besides, dear mother," she continued timidly, "you know I do not love gay clothing. I do not think it becomes a girl who, however unworthily, still desires and endeavours to lead a religious life."
"Be as religious as you please, my dear daughter," said Madame de Talmont, with a slight smile, "but be dutiful also, and believe that I know how Mademoiselle de Talmont ought to appear at mass much better than she does herself."
"Mother, that is not all," Clémence resumed. "I had rather keep that gown of yours all my life as it is now. It is part of my childhood; and, mother dear," she continued sadly, "there is so little of our childhood left to Henri and me. One of the earliest things I can remember is your showing that dress to me and telling me how my father brought it home to you the first time he went to Paris after his marriage, and how you wore it when you stood at the window of our old château in the Bocage, and watched him as he rode out with his men to join the Royalists."
"The last time I ever saw him—until I stood beside his death-bed. Ah, my child! that war in La Vendée has broken many a woman's heart."
"Still, mother, it was a just war. My father did well to die for his King."
