to speak, which allowed him to dispense with thought.  His duty, life had taught him.  Institutions and religion thought for him.  He reserved his mind, he and his kind, for action, not dissipating it on useless things which occupied the minds of other persons.  He drew his thought from his heart like his sword from its scabbard, holding it aloft in his ermined hand, as on his scutcheon, shining with sincerity.  That secret once penetrated, all is clear.  We can comprehend the depth of convictions that are not thoughts, but living principles,—­clear, distinct, downright, and as immaculate as the ermine itself.  We understand that sale made to his sister before the war; which provided for all, and faced all, death, confiscation, exile.  The beauty of the character of these two old people (for the sister lived only for and by the brother) cannot be understood to its full extent by the right of the selfish morals, the uncertain aims, and the inconstancy of this our epoch.  An archangel, charged with the duty of penetrating to the inmost recesses of their hearts could not have found one thought of personal interest.  In 1814, when the rector of Guerande suggested to the baron that he should go to Paris and claim his recompense from the triumphant Bourbons, the old sister, so saving and miserly for the household, cried out:—­

“Oh, fy! does my brother need to hold out his hand like a beggar?”

“It would be thought I served a king from interest,” said the old man.  “Besides, it is for him to remember.  Poor king! he must be weary indeed of those who harass him.  If he gave them all France in bits, they still would ask.”

This loyal servant, who had spent his life and means on Louis XVIII., received the rank of colonel, the cross of Saint-Louis, and a stipend of two thousand francs a year.

“The king did remember!” he said when the news reached him.

No one undeceived him.  The gift was really made by the Duc de Feltre.  But, as an act of gratitude to the king, the baron sustained a siege at Guerande against the forces of General Travot.  He refused to surrender the fortress, and when it was absolutely necessary to evacuate it he escaped into the woods with a band of Chouans, who continued armed until the second restoration of the Bourbons.  Guerande still treasures the memory of that siege.

We must admit that the Baron du Guenic was illiterate as a peasant.  He could read, write, and do some little ciphering; he knew the military art and heraldry, but, excepting always his prayer-book, he had not read three volumes in the course of his life.  His clothing, which is not an insignificant point, was invariably the same; it consisted of stout shoes, ribbed stockings, breeches of greenish velveteen, a cloth waistcoat, and a loose coat with a collar, from which hung the cross of Saint-Louis.  A noble serenity now reigned upon that face where, for the last year or so, sleep, the forerunner of death, seemed to be preparing him for rest eternal.  This constant somnolence, becoming daily more and more frequent, did not alarm either his wife, his blind sister, or his friends, whose medical knowledge was of the slightest.  To them these solemn pauses of a life without reproach, but very weary, were naturally explained:  the baron had done his duty, that was all.