"Babette told me this morning that she hears there is a new 'senatus consultus.'"
Henri's thoughts turned rapidly from the mild sway of the Incas, of which he had been dreaming, to the iron despotism of Napoleon, for him no dream, but a stern and terrible reality. "If there were twenty conscriptions," he muttered hastily, "you know I am under age."
"I do not know it," Clémence answered. "The curé says he fears all are liable who will complete their eighteenth year in 1812. That is why I want you to go and see whether the placard is there, before we alarm our mother. But take your coffee first, brother. I will bring it to you, if you like."
She brought him a cup of fragrant café-au-lait, and a fresh roll, prepared that morning by her own hands. He had just begun to eat and drink when a voice from an adjoining room like her own, gentle and musical, but decided—called, "Clémence."
"Don't delay about the Mairie," she said as she hastened in. "I will tell our mother you are going for a walk."
Grave, sweet, and dignified was the lady who stood at the table in the little parlour. Her face was worn and pale; the hair that appeared beneath her snowy cap was slightly silvered; and in her demeanour something of antique stateliness combined with the peculiar and inimitable grace of the old régime.
A dress of purple brocade, rich and stiff, lay on the table before her. "Come here, Clémence," she said; "I want to make this dress fit you."
But Clémence shrank back. "Oh no, no, mother!" she said, with an air of pain.
"But yes," returned Madame de Talmont, in a quiet, peremptory voice. "Not a word, my daughter; it is yours." And seating herself, she took up a pair of scissors,
