scattered, incoherent, "discursive talk" beneath which overwhelming emotions usually conceal, because they cannot adequately express, themselves. Morning had almost come when Madame de Talmont asked, suddenly raising her head from a hot, tear-stained pillow, "Clémence, what about a ransom? We have that to think of now."
"I have been thinking of it, mother," Clémence answered gently. "But peace will be made—must be made shortly. May we not conclude that something will be arranged in it about the prisoners?"
"If peace were to be made with any one save Napoleon, I should say yes. Some men would think of their followers, and try to make terms for them, were they themselves on the way to the scaffold. But this Corsican adventurer has as little idea of knightly honour as of Christian grace; while who can tell yet what is to come after him? No, Clémence; you may depend upon it those poor captives have no friends save God and their own kinsfolk.—What can we do? Not even a jewel of any value is left us now."
"But, mother, we have still our little pittance in the Rentes. Now that La Tante supplies all our real needs, we can sell what is there."
"Ah, that is not enough, I fear, since the Rentes have fallen so low. Yet it is all we have.—Clémence, I do not like Russians; in fact, as a general thing, I have quite a prejudice against them."
"Oh, mother, why?" asked Clémence, in tones rather more earnest than the case demanded. "They could not help killing our people; they were defending their native country," she added.
"Not for that, of course; but there are reasons which you do not know. I was about to say, however, that young Russian has interested and attracted me in spite of myself. He seems quite a 'preux chevalier;' and," she added more softly, "al-
