tell what they find there. Some, it may be, bring back from thence secrets of divine love, "treasures of the deep that lieth under," worth all they have passed through to learn them. But it was not so with Clémence. She brought no pearls with her from the deeps of ocean. It was much if she herself came back, or rather drifted back, forlorn and weary, because mind and body were no longer strong enough to bear the strain of intense emotion. She said in her heart,—as poor Henri thought she would do all too easily,—"It is the will of God;" but she never truly said, "Thy will be done." Perhaps she made her heavy burden heavier by asking from herself what God never asked from her; forgetting that it is not his will that any sinner should perish, and that Christ himself wept tears of divine compassion over lost souls. So her own faith grew dim and clouded, until even the sense of personal love to God seemed to vanish away, and with it the trust in his love to her; for, unhappily, her creed did not teach her that his love to his chosen and adopted is "everlasting."
In the course of time an outward change was mercifully sent to break up the current of those two sorrowful lives. A widowed sister of Madame de Talmont's mother had been able to retain a portion of her property through all the storms of the Revolution. Madame de Salgues had lost both her sons, and only one grandson remained to her, the object of her passionate devotion. But the agents of Napoleon kept watch over the lad, as a scion of the old noblesse; and when he had attained a suitable age, Madame de Salgues was requested to send him to the Ecole Polytechnique, such a request being too evidently a command. She wept, but had to obey; removing, however, to Paris, in order to be near him. But the superintendent of police, the notorious Savary, had a word to say upon that subject; and the poor old lady was soon forbidden to reside within the city. Remonstrance was useless; so she retired to Versailles, where she was still near enough to receive frequent
