"What devastation! What wanton devastation! Oh, those fiends! those cruel, callous fiends!"Mme. la Marquise de Mortain, for once in her life, was thoroughly unnerved. She was readyto cry ... but tears had not come to her eyes for the past twenty years; their well-spring hadrun dry under the influence of an unconquerable energy and of a glowing enthusiasm for acause which, at any rate, for the moment was doomed. Mme. la Marquise did not shed tearswhen she first arrived on a cold, showery night early in May to what had been the luxurioushome of her childhood. She did not cry when she wandered half aimlessly through thesalons and apartments of the Château de Courson-all that was left to her brother of hisonce splendid patrimony-a mere barrack now where most windows were cracked, wherethe paper hung in strips from the walls and the ceilings painted by Boucher were stainedwith smoke and damp.It was just fourteen years now that the château had been standing empty and desolate-fourteen years during which snow, rain and tempest had worked their cruel way withshutters and window frames, with stucco, plaster and roofs. It was only the fabric itself-the fine solid stone walls of sixteenth century architecture which had remained intact-themonumental staircase, with its marble balustrade, the terraces and façades. True, the stonewas stained by damp and mildew, and the ivy, which fourteen years ago had been a prettyand romantic feature of the copings, was now a danger to them through the vigour andrankness of its growth; but these were matters which could easily be remedied, and whichin themselves enhanced rather than detracted from the picturesqueness of the stately pile.It was the aspect of the interior of the château which had wrung from Mme. la Marquise deMortain that cry of bitter sorrow. Fourteen years!!! She herself had been staying at Coursonwhen her brother was at last compelled to dismiss all his servants, and to flee from thecountry, as many an aristocrat had done already in order to save not so much himself as hisfamily-his young children-from the terrible doom which daily appeared more inevitable.Baudouin de Courson was then a widower, his daughter Fernande was a mere baby. Hehimself intended and did join the army of the Princes at Coblentz, together with Arnould deMortain, his brother-in-law; Mme. la Marquise, with her son Laurent and with littleFernande de Courson, found refuge and hospitality in England, as many fugitive Royalistshad already done; and the Château de Courson remained for a while under the care of oldMatthieu Renard and of his wife Annette-faithful servants of the family