He loved her--and though she was an orphan, destitute of fortune, he
married her, considering the treasure of her virgin heart of far greater
value than the most magnificent dowry.

She was an honest woman, as her husband was an honest man, in the most
strict and vigorous sense of the word.

She was seldom seen at the Tuileries, where M. d'Escorval's worth made
him eagerly welcomed. The splendors of the Imperial Court, which at
that time surpassed all the pomp of the time of Louis XIV., had no
attractions for her.

Grace, beauty, youth and accomplishments--she reserved them all for the
adornment of her home.

Her husband was her God. She lived in him and through him. She had not a
thought which did not belong to him.

The short time that he could spare from his arduous labors to devote to
her were her happiest hours.

And when, in the evening, they sat beside the fire in their modest
drawing-room, with their son Maurice playing on the rug at their feet,
it seemed to them that they had nothing to wish for here below.

The overthrow of the empire surprised them in the heydey of their
happiness.

Surprised them? No. For a long time M. d'Escorval had seen the