And that was only eight months ago.
What a difference between those days when she lived happy and envied in
that beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse, of which she believed herself the
mistress, and at the present time, when she found herself lying in the
comfortless room of a miserable country inn, attended by an old woman
whom she did not know, and with no other protection than that of an old
soldier--a deserter, whose life was in constant danger--and that of her
proscribed lover.
From this total wreck of her cherished ambitions, of her hopes, of her
fortune, of her happiness, and of her future, she had not even saved her
honor.
But was she alone responsible? Who had imposed upon her the odious role
which she had played with Maurice, Martial, and Chanlouineau?
As this last name darted through her mind, the scene in the prison-cell
rose suddenly and vividly before her.
Chanlouineau had given her a letter, saying as he did so:
"You will read this when I am no more."
She might read it now that he had fallen beneath the bullets of the
soldiery.
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