Page:Peterson Magazine 1869B.pdf/501

458 MARIE ANTOINETTE'S TALISMAN. Henry!”

Again the poor man was seized with a shivering fit. He put the long hair back from his eyes, looked in that troubled face, and motioned with his hand that the woman should speak again.

‘My poor husband—my own, own Henry!

He looked around, smiling, and nodded his head.

“That was my name!”

The words fell from his lips at intervals, as if he were counting them; but the sound pleased him, and he repeated over and over again, “That was my name!”

“Ah, Henry! try to remember mine. Therese your wife!”

“My wife! My wife!” That was her name. My wife!

He looked at the woman again shyly, and touched her with his finger. She was crying now, and seeing this, he took up a long tress of his hair and attempted to wipe the tears from her face; but his hand wandered wide of its intent, and fell upon her shoulder. She taok it up tenderly and kissed it, sobbing as her tears fell thick and fast. Something in the touch of her hand, or the mournful look in her eyes, awoke that dormant soul. He clung close to her hand, his eyes looked steadily into hers, a soft tremor stole over the gentle whiteness of his face. “My wife! My wife! Therese!”

“He knows me,” she said, claiming sympathy from Jaque, who had taken the torch from her hand. ‘I think he knows me.”

Jaque nodded his head, great tears were roll ing down his cheek, and he held- the torch un steadily.

‘“My wife!’ repeated the prisoner, with plaintive wail of a child.

She bent toward him, a smile beamed on her face, one arm stole around his neck, and with a sob she pressed her lips upon his.

That instant all strength left him, and he fell into her arms, murmuring softly, “My wife! my wife! my wife!”

Some sweet link of affection had drawn that poor soul back to its old life.

Marguerite had been left alone all that night and day, for the riot at the Bastile had con- sumed so much time. She knew that some great; event was going on; that the people had risen; that Monsieur Jaque and her mother was among the crowd, urging them to some deed of violence —but this was all. Neither of these persons wished her gentle heart to bear the agonies ‘of suspense a true knowledge of their actions would bring upon her. In this they were mistakenly cruel. The very vagueness of her fears made them more intense. All day she sat listening to the noises in the street. Each sound gave her a pang at the heart. Not knowing the thing she had most to fear, she apprehended everything.

At last a step sounded on the stairs. She held her breath and listened. Yes, it was his step, at this moment the dearest to her on earth. He came in weary and staggering from over-exertion; his hair was full of dust, his hands black from the rough stones he had torn from their place. All his garments were rent; she would not have known him but for the brilliancy of his eyes, and the glorious expression of his face.

Monsieur Jaque came up to Marguerite and held out both hands.

“Marguerite, my beloved, I come to give back your promise. I must not earn your love, it shall be a gift of the heart, or nothing.”

She was surprised, and a little hurt; perhaps she had guessed at the tumult in the streets, and was disappointed.

‘Then you despair. My poor, poor father!”

“No, Marguerite, I do not despair. Your father is this moment a free man. The people are even now tearing down the Bastile; but I will not give the father freedom, that his daughter may be a slave.

Marguerite started up one her clasped hands were lifted-to heaven, then she reached them forth, crying out,

“A slave! Your slave! My father free! my mother happy, and I yours forever and ever! Thank God! Thank God!”

Monsieur Jaque clasped her hands, his eyes looked into hers; he opened his arms and gathered her close to his heart.

“Is it true? Can it be true? Is this love, or only gratitude? In mercy, tell me!”

She wound her arms around his neck; she laid her cheek to his, and, in the sweetest voice  that ever stirred a man’s heart, whispered,

Does this seem like love, or only gratitude!”

“My darling! Oh, my God! make me thank ful! But, bark! they are coming! Do not tremble, the angels are not more harmless than this good man.”

But she clung to him nervously, the tremor of a great expectation shook her frame; her eyes grew bright as she turned them on the door.

The footsteps which came up those stairs were slow and uncertain; but at last the reached the threshold, the door opened, and

�