90 AN EPISODE OF JULY 1830. 



" Certainly, and your mother's rent was regularly paid by Madame 

 la Dauphine ; your brother (poor fellow !) was admitted into the 

 Garde Royale, and your sisters were provided for by the Duchess of 

 Berri." 



Pierre staggered : the old portier seized his arm, and, dragging 

 him accross the obscure porte cochere, brought him into a small yard 

 which was tolerably light, though surrounded by high buildings. 



" Ha ! friend Pierre, you are armed," said the portier ; l< what! 

 a sabre, a musket, and, by heavens, the tri-coloured cockade !" 



Pierre struck his forehead violently ; for a few seconds he re- 

 mained motionless then, rushing up the stairs, he soon reached the 

 door of his mother's apartment it was open. A most awful scene 

 met his gaze. 



His aged grandmother was reclining in a large arm-chair, count- 

 ing, mechanically, with her lean and withered fingers, the worn 

 beads of a rosary. She was evidently praying, yet her lips moved 

 not ; big tears rolled down her furrowed cheeks, but her brow was 

 unclouded ; the grief which was visible in her countenance appeared 

 to arise from sympathy, or instinct thought or reflection had no 

 share therein. 



The mother of the hero of July was upon her knees, dressing the 

 wounds of a royal guardsman, who seemed to be at the point of 

 death. Tw r o young girls stood, pale and trembling, by the side of 

 their afflicted parent, whose sobs almost suffocated her. Despair was 

 stamped upon her features, and her eyes were constantly fixed upon 

 the soldier, for whose last gasp she seemed to be wildly watching : 

 all her faculties appeared to be concentrated in one immovable gaze ! 

 her eyelids were red and swollen. 



" Give me your hand, my son your hand ! But, he no longer 

 hears me ! And he has been massacred by Frenchmen ! the mur- 

 derers are not far off; if they should enter our home perhaps they 

 would tear my poor boy in pieces, even on the brink of the grave ! 

 Do not insult a mother's feelings, girls, by offering me consolation ; 

 I want none leave me leave me." 



Pierre was still on the threshold, for he had not dared to enter this 

 chamber of affliction and death ; his hair stood on end his tongue 

 clave to the roof of his mouth the musket fell from his hand ! 



Roused by the heavy ring of the gun, the wretched mother, turn- 

 ing her eyes towards the door, perceived her child, 



" Pierre/' she cried, in a tone of maternal joy, which even the 

 horrible spectacle before her could not restrain, " my own Pierre !" 

 and she was on the point of casting herself into his arms. But, 

 a cry, very different from the former, now escaped her : Pierre's 

 clothing was stained with blood! his hands the same a sword a 

 musket the COCKADE had met her eye ! 



" Oh ! God," she exclaimed, in a hollow voice, tf Pierre ! no no 

 I mistake this ruffian cannot be my son ! Nay, it is not he. I 

 ask, are you Pierre? Speak answer. Oh ! my brain turns." 



Pierre's head fell upon his breast he could not reply he wept. 



At this juncture the old woman rose the name of Pierre had 

 fallen on her ear ; it seemed to have awakened her torpid faculties. 



