Aunt Angelica alone, as she left the church, where she had been fixing the benches, had seen him go down the little street between the church and prison, apparently toward the fields.

  This did not make the abbe less uneasy, but, on the contrary, more unhappy. He was not unaware that strange hallucinations sometimes seized young Gilbert whenever the woman he called his mother appeared. And more than once, the abbe had followed him, when under the influence of this vertigo he seemed inclined to go too far into the fields, where he was afraid he would be lost, and on such occasions would send the best runners of the college after him.

  The child had always been found panting, and almost exhausted, leaning against some tree, or resting on some bank beside some beautiful hedge.

  Sebastian, however, had never had this vertigo late in the day. No one had ever been obliged to run after him at night.

  Something extraordinary, therefore, must nave happened. But the abbe could not fancy what.

  To be more completely satisfied than the abbe, we will follow Sebastian Gilbert, and find out whither he went.

  Aunt Angelica was not mistaken. She had seen Sebastian Gilbert hurrying in the shade, and seeking as rapidly as possible to reach the park. Thence he had gone to the pheasantry, and had proceeded down a lane which led towards Haramont.

  He went to find Pitou.

  But Piton went out of one side of the village, as Sebastian entered the other.

  Pitou, in the simplicity of his nature, did not see the use of keeping a door closed, whether one be out or in. Sebastian knew Pitou’s room as well as he knew his own. He looked for a flint and steel, lighted the candle, and waited.

  Sebastian was in too great agitation, however, to wait quietly or long.

  As time passed, he went to a rickety table, on which was pen, ink and paper. Oil the first page were the names and surnames of the thirty-three men who formed the effective force of the national guard of Haramont, and who were under Pitou’s orders.

  Gilbert carefully lifted this sheet, which was the chef d’oeuvre of the commandant’s writing, for he did not disdain, in order that things might be correctly done, to play the orderly sergeant.

  On the second sheet he wrote:

  “DEAR PITOU,

  “I am about to tell you that eight days ago I overheard a conversation between the Abbe Fortier and the Vicar of Villers-Cotterets. It seems the Abbe Fortier connives with aristocrats at Paris, and told the vicar that a counter revolution was being prepared.

  “So we heard about the queen who put on a black cockade and trampled the tricolour in the dust.

  “This threat of a counter revolution, according to what we heard about the events that followed the banquet, made me uneasy on my father’s account, for as you know he is opposed to the aristocrats. Things now, though, are far worse.

  “The vicar returned to see the curate, and, as I was anxious about my father, I thought I would hear all about what I got an inkling of by accident.

  “It seems the people went to Versailles, and massacred many persons, among them M. Georges dc Charny.

  “Portier added:

  “‘Let us speak low, lest we annoy little Gilbert. His father was there, and may have been among the victims.’

  “You see, Pitou, I heard no more.

  “I slipped out of my hiding-place, unseen, went through the garden to the Castle Square, and hurried to ask you to take me back to Paris, which I know you would willingly do if you were here.

  “As, however, you may not be back for some time, having gone probably to fix your nets in the forest, which will keep you till morning, I am too anxious to wait.

  “I will then go alone. Be at ease, for I know the way. Besides, I have yet two louis left of the money my father sent me, and I will take a place in the first carriage I meet.

  “Your loving

  “SEBASTIAN.

  “P. S. — I have written a long letter, first, to explain to you why I go, and in the second, because I hoped you would return before I finished.

  “But you did not. Good-bye until we meet again. If my father be unhurt, I will return.

  “Make the Abbe Fortier easy about me, or at least do not do so until to-morrow, lest he should pursue me.

  “Well, as you will not come, adieu.”

  As Sebastian knew how economical his friend Pitou was, he put out the candle and left.

  The lad then, entirely engrossed by his undertaking, set out for Lorgny. He passed the village and reached the broad ravine which led thence to Valenciennes, and which drains the ponds of Walue: at Valenciennes, he reached the high road, and when in the plain began to talk more rapidly. He did not slacken his pace or leave the centre until he came to a brief eminence where the two roads to Paris and Cressy divided.

  When coming from Paris he had not noticed the separation, and now did not remember which he should take.

  He paused undecided.

  He looked around to see if anything would tell him which he should wake. This he could have done by day, but it was impossible at night. Just then he heard the gallop of two horses.

  He prepared to stop and ask the wayfarers, and accordingly advanced to address the first.

  The latter, seeing a man leave the roadside, put his hand in his holster.

  Sebastian saw him do so.

  “Sir,” said he, “I am not a robber, but a poor lad, whom recent events at Versailles force to go to Paris to look for his father. I do not know which road to take. Tell me, and you will do me a great favour.”

  The servant came up.

  “Sir,” he said,” do you recognise that lad?’’

  “No, yet it seems to me — ”

  “How, sir, do you not recognise young Sebastian Gilbert, who is at school with the Abbe Fortier?”

  “Yes, who often goes with Pitou to the farm of Mademoiselle Catherine.”

  “You are right.”

  Turning round, he said, “It is you, Sebastian?”

  “Yes, M. Isidor,” said the child, who knew to whom he spoke.

  “Tell me, then, why are you here at this hour?”

  “I am on my way to Paris, to see if my father be dead or alive.”

  “Alas! child,” said the gentleman sadly, “I go for the same purpose, but am certain of all.”

  “Yes! I know, your brother.”

  “One of my brothers, George, was killed yesterday, at Versailles.”

  “Ah! M. de Charny.”

  “Well, my child,” said the latter, “since we go for the same purpose, we must not separate, for you, like me, must go to Paris.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yon cannot go on foot.”

  “I will not go far, for to-morrow I will take a seat in the first carriage I find, and go as far as possible to Paris in it.”

  “But if you meet none?” — ” Then I must go on foot.”

  “You can do something better than that; get down, Baptiste, and help Sebastian up.”

  “Thank you, it is useless,” and, active as a boy, he sprang up behind the count.

  The three men and the two horses galloped off, and disappeared behind the hill of Grand Ville.

  They continued on to Daumartin, which they reached at six o’clock.

  All needed refreshments, and, besides, it was necessary to find post-horses.

  After having left Daumartin at noon, they reached the Tuileries at six in the afternoon.

  There a delay took place. M. de Lafayette had posted the guards, and having taken charge of the king’s safety, in these troublous times, punctiliously discharged his duty.

  When Charny, however, mentioned his name, and his brother’s, he was introduced into the Swiss court-yard with Sebastian, and thence they went into the central yard.

  Sebastian wished at once to go to the house in the Rue St. Honore where he had left his father, but Charny told him that as the doctor was now royal physician, he would be found more probably in the palace than elsewhere.

  Isidor was introduced by the state staircase, and an usher made him wait in a saloon hung with green cloth, dimly lighted by two candelabras.

  The usher went at once to ask for the Count de Charny and the doctor. After about ten minutes he came back and said the Count de Charny was with the queen.

  Nothing had happened to the doctor, and it was thought that he was with the king.

  Sebastian breathed freely. He had net any occasion to dread anything, for his father was unhurt and safe.

  “The Viscomte de Charny,” said an usher.

  Well. I am he.”

  “Is expected by the queen.”

  “Wait for me. Sebastian, at least until your father comes. Remember, I must be responsible to him for you.”

  Isidor followed the usher, and Sebastian again sat down.

  At ease in relation to his father’s health and about himself, for he was sure he would be forgiven by the doctor for what he had done, he began to think of the Abbe Fortier and of Pitou, and of the anxiety both would feel on account of his letter.

  He did not see how, after all the great delay they met with on the road, it had happened that Pitou had not overtaken them with his long legs.

  By the simple association of ideas with Pitou, he thought of his usual home, of the tall trees, the many pathways, the blue horizon, and then the strange visions he so often had had beneath the old trees of the vast forest.

  He thought of her he had so often seen in his dreams, and but once only, he fancied, in reality, in the wood of Satory, where she appeared and disappeared, like a cloud borne away in a calash by a magnificent steed.

  He remembered the deep emotion the apparition always caused, and, half lost in that dream, murmured, “Mother! mother! mother!”

  Suddenly the door through which Isidor had gone opened again, and a female form appeared.

  So perfectly was the figure in harmony with the thoughts that flitted by, that, seeing his dream realized, the lad trembled.

  His feeling, however, was far more intense when he saw both the shadow and reality.

  The shadow of dreamland, the reality of Satory.

  He sprang at once to his feet.

  His lips opened, his eyes rolled, and his pupils expanded.

  He panted, but sought in vain to speak.

  The woman passed proudly, majestically by, and seemed not to notice him.

  She crossed the hall diagonally, opened the door opposite to that through which she had entered, and disappeared in the corridor.

  Sebastian saw that he was about to lose, and hurried after, her. He looked carefully, as if to be sure that she had gone from the door she had entered to the one whence she passed, and overtook her before her silken robe had disappeared.

  Hearing his steps, she had walked quickly, as if she feared pursuit.

  Sebastian hurried, but the corridor was long and dark. He was afraid his vision would desert him.

  She, hearing his footsteps approach, hurried away the more rapidly, but looked back.

  Sebastian uttered an exclamation of joy. It was indeed she.

  The woman, seeing the lad follow her, she knew not why, hurried to the ladder, and rushed down the steps.

  Scarcely had she descended a single story, than Sebastian stood at the top, and cried, “Lady! Lady!”

  The voice filled her heart with strange sensations: it seemed that a blow half pleasant, half painful, had struck her heart, and passing through her veins, had filled her bosom with emotion.

  Understanding neither the appeal nor the emotion, she increased her gait, and finally ran.

  The Lid was, however, too near for her to escape, and they reached a carriage together, the door of which a servant kept open. She sprang in, and sat down.

  Before, however, the door could be shut, Sebastian got between her and the servant, seized her skirt, and kissing it passionately, exclaimed, “Ah, lady! lady!”

  The woman then looked at the child who had first frightened her, said, in a gentler tone than usual, but yet maintaining something of fear: “Well, why do you follow me? why did you call me? tell me what you wish for me to do?”

  “I wish, I wish to kiss you,” said our panting child; and low enough to be hoard only by her, added, “I wish to call you mother!”

  The young woman uttered a cry, took the head of her child in her hands, and as if by a sudden revelation, which made her know some great mystery, pressed her burning lips on his brow.

  Then, as if she feared some one would deprive her of the child she had so strangely found, she drew him into the carriage, put him on the other side of her, and closed the glass of the door, which she pulled to with her own hands.

  “Drive to my house, No. 9, Rue Coq-Heron,” said she, “first door from Rue Platriere.”

  Turning to the child, she said: “What is your name?”

  “Sebastian.”

  “Here, here, Sebastian, to my heart!”

  Then, sinking back as if she were about to faint, she said: “Oh, what new sensation is this? Can it be happiness?”

  The whole drive was but one exchange of kisses between mother and son.

  This child, for never for a moment did she doubt that it was hers, which had been taken away on that fearful night of anguish and disgrace: this child, which had disappeared without the ravisher having left any trace but the print of his feet in the snow; this child, whom she had hated and cursed, because she had not heard its first cry, its first moan; whom she had sought, besought, and asked for everywhere; whom her brother had followed, with Gilbert, beyond the seas; whom for fifteen years she had regretted, and despaired ever meeting; of whom she thought no more, but as one loved and dead; at the moment she least expected, it was miraculously found, and, strange to say, himself recognised and pursued her, calling her mother, pressed her to his heart, without having ever seen her, loved her with true filial love as she him with a mother’s heart. Prom his lip, pure from the contamination of any kiss, she regains all the pleasures of a wasted life, and feels it when she first kisses him.

  There is, then, above the head of men, something more than the void in which worlds revolve. There is in life something more than chance and fate.

  She had said Rue Coq-Heron, No. 9, first door from Rue Platriere. It was a strange coincidence that after the lapse of so many years brought the child to the very spot where he was born, where he drew the first breath of life, and whence he had been taken by his father.

  This little house, bought by old Taverney, when some ease had been engrafted in his family by the high favour with which the queen honoured him, was kept in order by an old porter, who apparently had been bought with the house. It was a resting — -place to the countess when in Paris.

  Six o’clock struck as the porte cochere opened to the driver’s call, and they were at the door of the house.

  Giving the driver a piece of money twice the amount of his fare, she rushed, followed by the child, into the house, the door of which she closed carefully.

  At the door of the saloon she paused. It was lighted cheerfully by a light which burned in the grate, and by two candles on the mantlepiece.

  Andree drew her son to a kind of chaise longue, on which were concentrated the double light of the candles and of the fire.

  With an explosion of joy, in which, however, there yet lingered something of doubt, she said: “My child, is it indeed you?”

  “My mother!” said Sebastian, and his heart expanded into dew-like tenderness, as he leaned against Andree’s beating bosom.

  “And here! here!” as she looked around and saw that she was in the same room in which she gave birth to him, and saw with terror the door whence he had been taken.

  “Here!” said Sebastian, “what means that, mother?”

  “That you were born here, where we sit; and I thank the mercy of God, which, after fifteen years, has so miraculously restored you.”

  “Yes, miraculously; had I not feared for my father’s life, I would not alone and at night have set out for Paris. I would not have doubted which of the two roads to take. I would not have waited on the high road and asked M. Isidor de Charny. He would not have known and taken me to the palace of the Tuileries. I would not have seen you as you crossed the greenroom, and run after and joined you. I would not, in fine, have called you mother. It is a pleasant word to say.”

  At the words, “Had I not feared for my father’s life,” Andree felt a sharp pain run through her heart. She shut her eyes and drew back.

  At the words, “M. Isidor would not have known and taken me to the palace,” her eyes opened, and she thanked God with them. That her husband’s brother should restore her child was indeed strangely miraculous.

  At the words, “I would not have called you mother. It is a pleasant word to say,” she again remembered her happiness, and clasping Sebastian again to her heart, said: “Yes, you are right: there is, perhaps, but one more so, ‘My child, my child!’“

  There was a moment of silence, during which she pressed her lips again and again on his brow.

  Andree suddenly started up, and said, “It is impossible for all to be thus mysterious; you explained how you came hither, but have not told me how and why you knew and ran after me — why you called me mother?”

  “Can I tell you that?” said Sebastian, looking at Andree with an ineffable expression. “I do not know myself. You talk of mystery; all that relates to me is mysterious.”

  “But, then, something told you when I passed!”

  “Yes, my heart.” — ”Your heart?”

  “Listen, mother, I am about to tell something strange.”

  Andree drew yet nearer to her child, and looked up to heaven in thankfulness for the child thus restored to her.

  “I have known you ten years.”

  Andree trembled.

  “Do you not understand?”

  She shook her head.

  “Let me tell you. I sometimes have strange dreams, which my father calls hallucinations.”

  The name of Gilbert on her child’s lips, pierced like a dagger through her heart.

  “I have seen you twenty times, mother.”

  “How so?” — ” In the dreams of which I spoke just now.”

  Andree thought of those strange dreams which had endangered her life, and to one of which Sebastian owed his existence.