The kind reader who has followed thus far, has not forgotten a certain little village among the Vosges mountains, where in January, 1814, brave peasants fought and died in the defence of their country.

When Simon left Leigoutte with Sergeant Michel, he had no idea that the fury of the invaders would lead them to commit the crime of killing women and children, and to burn their homes. The Cossacks and the emigrÉs avenged themselves on French flesh and blood, and French homes and firesides.

While the Russians burned the cottage where FranÇoise and the children had taken shelter, Talizac, in order to ensure his possession of the title and Fongereues estates, set fire to the inn which was Simon's home. The emigrÉs took fiendish delight in destroying the school-room. Was it not there that the Republicans talked of duty and their country to the children? And when this band of royal thieves had passed, desolation settled down upon the valley.

The king was proclaimed at the Tuileries, and lying on his bed embroidered with purple fleur de lis, never condescended to think of the villages in the East that had welcomed the invaders with powder and shot.

By degrees Leigoutte, like its neighbors, began to hold up its head once more, and the few survivors agreed to take care of the women and children who had been left without protectors. The oldest among them remembered Simon's teachings, and repeated them to their children.

One day they experienced a great surprise. It became known that a stranger had purchased the land on which had formerly stood the inn and the school of Simon FougÈre. Every one wondered what the old man, who seemed to be an intendant, meant to do with this place, about which hung so many sad legends. Then came an architect, who employed the workmen in the village. They were paid well and promptly. The older inhabitants were consulted as to the plan of the old inn and the school.

When wonder had passed, the villagers were amazed to find the inn had been built exactly like the old one that had been burned by the emigrÉs. Yes, there was the large, well-lighted room where FranÇoise, with her little girl in her arms, had cordially welcomed the travelers, while little Jacques flew about with bright cheeks and brighter eyes. The sign, too, was just the same as the old one. The only difference was that the tri-colored flag did not wave in the morning breeze. The new proprietor was named Pierre Labarre. Who was he? No one knew. He had a benevolent face, and he liked to talk of Simon FougÈre, and made the villagers tell him the story of his death over and over again. Sometimes he was seen to listen with tears in his eyes.

"He knew him, that's sure!" said the peasants.

He selected a man and his wife to keep the inn. They had two children, a boy and a girl. The girl was named Francine. This completed the resemblance to the past. As a schoolmaster, Pierre appointed an old soldier, who was intelligent and honest.

Once more Leigoutte began to take heart. Pierre Labarre spent several days each year in the village, and yet the good people knew nothing of him more than his name. Pierre Labarre was not the real benefactor, who slept in his tomb, but when dying he had said to his old servant:

"I have been unfaithful to my duty toward Simon. I have been cowardly toward him. I have a large amount for my grandchildren, where, you alone will know. Seek these children, and make them rich. If Fate be against us, if you cannot find these children, consecrate this fortune to making the name of Simon beloved. Go to the poor village of Leigoutte, and let those who loved him, that is, all who knew him, be the heirs of that son whom the Marquis de Fongereues adored in his heart."

For many years he sought in vain for the smallest clue, but one day, after much discouragement, a new hope sprang to life in his heart. It was when the so-called Marquis de Fongereues came to demand at his hands the secret entrusted to the old man by his master. The very violence of the two men on that day proved that Simon's son was living. Had he been dead, the heirs of the Fongereues would have applied to the courts.

Then Pierre Labarre resumed his search, and an old man was continually seen on all the highways and by-ways of France, entering the humblest cottages and asking, in tremulous tones:

"Do you remember? It was in 1814."

But this was ten years ago. No one had seen two children flying for their lives. How many hopes were based upon a word, and how many disappointments followed!

Finally, he determined to act on the last words of his dying master, and he went to Leigoutte. It was an idea of his own to restore to Leigoutte its old look, the look it had one day long before when Simon FougÈre gave him a seat at his fireside, and Jacques looked at the stranger with his big, earnest eyes, while Cinette ran around the room.

The evening of which we write, this old servant of an emigrÉ sat under the trees opposite the school-room. He had gathered the village children about him. Night was coming on, but the spring air was soft and sweet. He spoke in a low voice, for the authorities of the village might have considered his words as somewhat of an incendiary nature. He said, softly:

"In other days, in Simon FougÈre's school, all the children said, 'Vive la France! Vive la Republique!'"

And the little children repeated these words: "Vive la France! Vive la Republique!"

At this moment a strange scene took place on the Square. Two shadows, dimly seen in the twilight, were kneeling before the inn. No one had seen them approach. Pierre Labarre was the first to notice them, and he felt a quick contraction of the heart that heralded some unlooked-for event. He rose quickly, and signed to the children to keep perfectly still. He nearly reached the two unknown without their hearing him. He saw that one was endeavoring to raise the other, who seemed to be infirm. She extended her hand to the inn, and seemed to be saying something, and then the two slowly mounted the steps of the inn.

Pierre, who was very near them, heard a sob. Who could they be? Pierre asked himself. The two strangers were now in the large room, where nothing seemed changed since the day that the wounded soldier leaned against the wall, exhausted by suffering and fatigue. There was the huge chimney, and there the shining tables.

The infirm woman now walks unaided. She goes straight to the fireplace, and seats herself in a chair. She looks at the door eagerly and expectantly.

Labarre again asked himself who this woman was, and what frightful accident had so injured her. Suddenly, while Labarre was watching her, the woman smiled.

"Ah! you have come, Simon!" she said with a smile, as if speaking to some one who had just come in. "The children are waiting for you, and the soup is ready. Jacques has been good, but you must talk to Cinette—she is a perfect little fiend, sometimes!"

Labarre, with his heart in his mouth, clutched at the wall to prevent himself from falling.

"Come! Cinette—come; you must not be naughty!"

It was plain to Labarre who this person was—he had heard her voice before. But this girl—who was she?

The old man now entered the room. The girl saw him, and said, apologetically:

"Pray, do not scold us—we mean no harm."

"Whoever asks hospitality at this door receives it," answered Labarre. "But tell who you both are."

Caillette, for it was she, laid her finger on her lips and whispered low:

"She is mad!"

Tears came to the old man's eyes.

"I beg of you," he asked again, "to tell me who this woman is."

"A poor, sick creature, who was once very happy. She has lost her husband and her children, and met with some terrible accident beside."

"But her name?"

"I have not the smallest idea. Cinette always calls her mamma."

"Cinette! Who bears that name?"

"A good little girl in Paris, who earns her bread by singing in the streets. It now seems that she is the sister of Fanfar. It is a very strange sorrow, one fall of sorrow!"

"And Fanfar—whom do you call Fanfar?" asked the old man, with a troubled face.

Caillette started. She remembered that her love had been disdained, but she was kind-hearted, of the stuff of which martyrs are made.

"Fanfar was a foundling. He is now a young man both good and handsome."

"Where have I heard that name?" Labarre said to himself.

Suddenly the woman seated in the chair looked up.

"Excuse the simplicity of the arrangements—the inn does as well as possible."

"FranÇoise FougÈre!" he cried.

FranÇoise started up, as if sustained by supernatural strength.

"Who calls me?" she cried. "Who is it that speaks my name?"

"FranÇoise, do you remember Simon, Jacques, Cinette?"

"My children? Yes, yes—I remember them. Where is it that I have just seen them? Oh! yes—I remember. I was all alone. Cinette's little bed was empty, and then the door opened and Jacques came!"

"Is he alive?" cried Labarre.

"Yes," answered Caillette. "They knew each other at once."

"But where is Francine?"

"She has been abducted by the Vicomte de Talizac."

"Talizac!"

Labarre caught at a chair for support. FranÇoise heard these words.

"Talizac! Oh! the base, cruel man. Quick! we cannot stay here. I must save Francine and Jacques. Oh! my box—where is my box?"

My readers must now learn how FranÇoise and Caillette found themselves at Leigoutte. They will remember that just as Fanfar recognized in the poor, sick woman the mother whose loss he had so deeply deplored, and in Francine the worshipped little sister whose agonized cries he had heard in the subterranean passages among the Vosges, all clue was lost, for Bobichel vanished, and with him Caillette.

And Gudel's daughter, who loved Fanfar with a love that was without hope, said to him:

"She is your mother. Will you allow me to take care of her?"

Fanfar looked at Caillette with loving, grateful eyes, and then hastened away with Bobichel and Gudel.

Then Caillette was left alone with the sick woman, who began to cry and sob. Her mind had been so long torpid that now this shock seemed to have swept away the last vestige of her intelligence. But Caillette was good and patient, and finally the sick woman slept. Caillette watched her and waited through the twilight, and at last, holding the hand of her charge in hers, she too fell asleep.

When the girl opened her eyes it was daybreak, and the bed was empty. Yes, Fanfar's mother, whom she had promised to guard, had vanished. She ran into the next room. No one was there, and the door was open.

Caillette ran to the concierge. "Where is she?" she cried.

"Do you mean the old woman? Oh! she went away before light."

"Impossible! She cannot walk."

"I was astonished myself, but my wife said to me, who is that coming down stairs? I looked, and I saw a ghost—not a pretty one either, begging your pardon. It was the paralytic, the old woman who had never walked a step all the while that the Marquise took care of her.

"'Where are you going?' I said to her.

"'To save Jacques.'"

"Jacques is her son, go on, quick," interrupted Caillette.

"'But you can't save any one,' I then said. This was not kind, Miss, but I was so astonished. She did not seem to mind it though, for she began to talk about a box, and told me to open the door. I had no right to disobey, you know."

"And she went away?" cried Caillette.

"Yes, and quick enough, too."

Caillette did not wait to hear more. She flew down the stairs also.

It was seven o'clock in the morning. Caillette did not dare to find Jacques, and tell him she had been faithless to her trust. No, she must find FranÇoise herself. She asked questions of all she met, and at last she had a ray of light. An old rag picker told her that he had seen a woman answering to the description given by Caillette. She at once started in the direction he pointed out; it was the road to Germany she took. She sold a small gold locket, which held a bit of ribbon from a sash Fanfar had once given her. She kept the ribbon, and received several crowns for the locket. She walked all day, finally certain that FranÇoise was not far in advance. It was not until the morning of the second day that the girl was rewarded by seeing FranÇoise at the door of an inn. Caillette rushed forward.

"Mother!" she cried.

"Ah! you know her?" said the innkeeper. "She is very strange."

"What did she say to you?"

"She asked for bread, and ate it without a word. Then, just as she saw you, she asked me where some village was. I never heard the name before."

The old woman now came to meet Caillette.

"Leigoutte!" she said. "Leigoutte!"

"Leigoutte!" repeated Caillette, "that is Fanfar's village."

The old woman shook her head, she did not know the name.

"I mean Leigoutte is where Jacques came from."

"Yes—yes—Jacques. I must save Jacques and the box!"

What was going on in the impaired mind of FranÇoise? Fanfar's sudden appearance had carried her memory back to the last interview she had with Simon, when, our readers will remember, he had given his wife the papers that proved his birth and that of Jacques. And now FranÇoise had but one idea, to return to Leigoutte. In vain did Caillette urge her to return to Paris, and the girl had promised Fanfar not to leave his mother. She therefore went on toward Germany with her. Fortunately, a wagoner took pity on these two women, and took them up. In this way they reached Leigoutte. FranÇoise was silent, except a few low words that she muttered under her breath at long intervals. Caillette thought with despair of Fanfar, and his agony at his mother's disappearance.

Alas! poor girl, she did not know that the night when she and FranÇoise entered the inn at Leigoutte, Fanfar, alone in his prison, thought of his mother whom he had scarcely seen, and of the sister whom he had held in his arms. Ah! it was a bitter trial for the strong, faithful heart.

Caillette and Pierre Labarre watched FranÇoise, when finally she arose from her chair, and went toward the door. On the threshold she seemed to hesitate. She thrust back her gray hair, and pressed her hand to her brow. Then, as if she suddenly remembered something, she turned and went toward the door in the back of the house, Caillette and Pierre following her every step she took. She went out into the garden, and up a winding path to the hill, which she began to climb with panting breath.

"Ah! she is going to the little farm of LasvÈne which was burned," said Pierre to himself.

Then, all the time watching FranÇoise, he began to question Caillette.

What motive had FranÇoise in these persistent wanderings? Was it merely the whim of a mad woman or had she some fixed design?

FranÇoise walked on. Sometimes she stopped short, and called Jacques, then Cinette. Labarre asked himself if it were not his duty to stop this poor woman, but a secret instinct bade him watch her to the end.

An hour elapsed, but FranÇoise seemed to feel no fatigue. At the cross-roads she did not hesitate. Finally they reached the Gorge d'Outremont. In the fast gathering darkness, the place was horrible and gloomy. As in a former description we have said, the mountain seemed at this gorge to have been cleft in twain by a gigantic hatchet.

At this moment, the clouds parted, and a pale young moon looked down on the landscape.

FranÇoise stopped short, Pierre well knew why. The little cottage of old LasvÈne had vanished, and the poor woman was bewildered. Labarre went to her, and took her hand. He knew where the foundations of the cottage were, and convinced that this was why she had come, he led her to the ruins. She laughed in a childish way.

"Burned? Ah! yes;" she repeated the cry of the Cossacks. "Death to the French!" And then she began to run.

It was an outbreak of madness. Caillette and Pierre uttered cries of fright.

The mystery of such a strange occurrence may never be solved, but FranÇoise threw herself on the ground in a corner where the little garden had stood, and began to dig furiously in the earth. Presently, she screamed:

"The box! The box! Jacques is not my son; Cinette is the Marquise de Fongereues. Jacques—Fanfar is Vicomte de Talizac!" And she fell unconscious into the arms of Labarre.