told that the colonel's servant had come. The man was riding his
master's horse--what need was there to ask any questions?--the colonel
was dead, cut in two by a shell. Before the evening was out the
youngest son's servant arrived--the youngest had died on the eve of
the battle. At midnight came a gunner with tidings of the death of the
last; upon whom, in those few hours, the poor father had centered all
his life. Madame, they all had fallen."

After a pause the good man controlled his feelings, and added gently:

"And their father is still living, madame. He realized that if God had
left him on earth, he was bound to live on and suffer on earth; but he
took refuge in the sanctuary. What could he be?"

The Marquise looked up and saw the cure's face, grown sublime in its
sorrow and resignation, and waited for him to speak. When the words
came, tears broke from her.

"A priest, madame; consecrated by his own tears previously shed at the
foot of the altar."

Silence prevailed for a little. The Marquise and the cure looked out
at the foggy landscape, as if they could see the figures of those who
were no more.

"Not a priest in a city, but a simple country cure," added he.

"At Saint-Lange," she said, drying her eyes.

"Yes, madame."