Armand's last words lingered in his ear: "Think of Marguerite!" The walls had fallen away from around him--the window, the river below, the Temple prison had all faded away, merged in the chaos of his thoughts.
Now he was no longer in Paris; he heard nothing of the horrors that even at this hour of the night were raging around him; he did not hear the call of murdered victims, of innocent women and children crying for help; he did not see the descendant of St.Louis, with a red cap on his baby head, stamping on the fleur-de-lys, and heaping insults on the memory of his mother.

All that had faded into nothingness.
He was in the garden at Richmond, and Marguerite was sitting on the stone seat, with branches of the rambler roses twining themselves in her hair.
He was sitting on the ground at her feet, his head pillowed in her lap, lazily dreaming whilst at his feet the river wound its graceful curves beneath overhanging willows and tall stately elms.
A swan came sailing majestically down the stream, and Marguerite, with idle, delicate hands, threw some crumbs of bread into the water.

Then she laughed, for she was quite happy, and anon she stooped, and he felt the fragrance of her lips as she bent over him and savoured the perfect sweetness of her caress.

She was happy because her husband was by her side.

He had done with adventures, with risking his life for others' sake.