Are you sound, I mean, reporting until romantic minerals?

perhaps, natural," she murmured in a low voice, "that absence
should cause those, who have the happiness to remain in their homes, to
forget us. But, for those who are driven out into foreign lands, the
life of the heart stands still, and the past is all to them; to the
exiled the present and the future are unimportant. In France every thing
has progressed, every thing is changed, I alone am left behind, with my
sentiments of unchangeable love and fidelity! Alas! how sorrowful and
painful it is to be forgotten[73]! How--"

Suddenly she was interrupted by the tones of a piano, that resounded in
her immediate vicinity. Behind the bench on which they were sitting,
were the windows of the parlor of the hotel. These windows were open,
and each tone of the music within could be heard with the greatest
distinctness.

The playing was now interrupted by a female voice, which said: "Sing us
a song, my daughter."

"What shall I sing?" asked another and more youthful voice.

"Sing the beautiful, touching song your brother brought you from Paris
yesterday. The song of Delphine Gay, set to music by M. de Beauplan."

"Ah, you mean the song about Queen Hortense, who comes to Paris as a
pilgrim? You are right, mamma, it is a beautiful and touching song, and
I will sing it!"

And the young lady struck the keys more forcibly, and began to play the
prelude.

Outside on the stone bench sat she who was once Queen Hortense, but was
now the poor, solitary pilgrim. Nothing remained to her of the glorious
past, but her son, who sat at her side! Hand in hand, both breathless
with emotion, both pale and tearful, they listened until the young girl
concluded her touching song.

[Footnote 73: The duchess's own words. See Voyage en Italie, etc., p.
305.]



CHAPTER XIII.

CONCLUSION.

This sorrowful pilgrimage


.

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