"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.
"There is a placard on the Mairie announcing that the drawing for the conscription is to take place next Thursday. It is as the curé told us: all are liable who will be eighteen in the course of the year."
Both his hearers grew pale, and the work fell from their hands. After a short pause his mother said, "It is plain you will have to attend. God grant you may draw a good number. But, at all events—" She remained silent for some moments, then she added, in a voice which struggled hard to be calm, "Bring me my desk, Clémence; we must be prepared for the worst."
Clémence obeyed mechanically, while Henri stood silent and listless, watching her movements.
"Henri," resumed Madame de Talmont, "I am going to write to our good friend Grandpierre. Should the worst happen, you must escape, and go to him through the forest. He will shelter you."
"But, mother, mother"—the lad's colour came and went, and a quiver ran through his frame—"the risk is terrible."
"To him? He will venture it, for the House of Talmont, for his King, and for his God."
"To us all. Do you know how they deal with the refractory, as they call those who try to evade the conscription, and with their families?"
Madame de Talmont raised her thin hand with a peremptory gesture, "Not another word, Henri. It concerns not thee or us to measure the danger; the duty is all with which we have to do. I can bear to think of thee pining on bread and water, with a bullet chained to thy foot, and thy head shaved like a convict's; I could not bear to know thee in the camp of the
